Saturday night. Our favorite Tex Mex cantina is crowded as usual. The upstairs is warm and inviting with delicious aromas everywhere. We have a great candlelit table right by the window. Old Town sparkles below, bathed in the glow of the street lamps. Suddenly, our waiter approaches the table, carrying what looks like a red telephone. He plugs it in under our table.

"Sir, it's for you. It's...him."

"What? Who the hell is calling me here and how did they even know?"

"Hello? Who? Is it really you? You're kidding! Yes, sir. How can I help you?"

To say my wife and friends were really getting curious now would be an understatement. It looked like their eyes were popping out of their heads.

"It's really him. He wants my help with the air strikes."

"You're joking, right?"

"I'm not kidding. He really wants my input. Something about a tie-breaker."

The voice at the other end continues:

"We're deadlocked here; we need your vote to break the tie; do you think we should bomb the bastard?"

"Uh, sure. I'd go for it. I mean, we already have all those planes and ships over there, right?"

"You bet. Loaded with cruise missiles and cluster bombs."

"Isn't that supposed to be, like, classified?"

"Not any more. Our new policy is to leak everything in advance. That way any unpopular decision will be out in the open so we won't get the blame if it blows up in our face. So what's your vote?"

"I say nuke 'em!"

"Uh, sorry. No nukes. The British Prime Minister nixed the idea."

"Well, OK, I say go for it with all you've got."

"Thank you, your vote is recorded."

"You're welcome, sir, and, for what it's worth, I think you got a bum rap."

"Thank you. The American people will never forget your courage tonight."

No one spoke at the table. I felt an exhilirating rush all over. He actually wanted my opinion!! Wow!! It was better than sex. All right, let's not get that carried away.

"Come on, everyone; let's go downstairs to the bar and celebrate with a round of Chevas, on me."

Moments later, in the Cactus Pit I ordered four drinks and two fancy cigars for Johnny and me. I was on top of the world and oblivious to what was playing on the TV screens mounted over the bar. It seemed like the usual lame trivia game - that stupid, vapid interactive game, played at bars all over the country where the object is to answer some moronic trivia question, as the seconds counted down, accumulating points for yourself and your establishment while you compete with such dimwits as "ScuzBucket," "SlimeBall07," and "StudMuffin."

As I lit the Don Thomas, dipping the end into the Chevas, I glanced up at the screen, watching for the first time. The question was:

"Should we send the B52 package alone or the full air-sea-land invasion?"

I noticed there were changing cumulative totals being displayed and a countdown clock indicating that four minutes thirty seconds remained. The vote was running 84% for the full invasion.

"What's this?"

"Looks like you're not the only one being polled," said Johhny, blowing an enormous puff of smoke in my face for emphasis.

"Well, he actually spoke to me in person. These other people are just pressing some electronic button anonymously. Bartender, another round for my friends."

The time passed as we downed another beverage. The final question was off the screen, the tally displayed as follows:

Bomb the hell out of the bastard. 67%
Let him off, again. 27%
Undecided. 3%
Don't understand the question. 3%

There was another clock counting down, now indicating "3 minutes, 10 seconds." Nobody seemed to be paying much attention. It seemed like everyone thought it was just a game like all the others.

Moments later the football game was interrupted by a Special Bulletin. Flash...Reuters reports...the United States has just launched a premptive strike against the Republic... Air, sea and land forces are participating. Cut to reporter illuminated by an eerie, explosive sky that resembled the Fourth of July. Cut again to another reporter who seems to be standing outside a busy restaurant in a large, urban setting. The reporter is recounting the last minutes of the decision-making drama in the Situation Room and how, in an unprecedented move, the command hierarchy had sought the input of a local "military expert and his staff" in reaching the final decision to launch, and that we were about to interview them.

The door to the Amarillo swung open. A news crew, led by the TV reporter strode inside, heading straight for me at the bar.

"How does it feel to have made the final decision?"

I took a long draw on the DT. "It was nothing. Make harder decisions than this every day on the 'friggin Beltway!" I was feeling pretty cocky.

"Did you know an orphanage and a shelter for disabled camels was destroyed in the first wave? And a children's hopsital and the downtown Hilton vanished in a puff of smoke?"

"Uh, we never discussed "collateral damage."

"Well, an international tribunal has already charged you with 250 counts of crimes against humanity. The ASPCA will deal with you later."

"What...! I was just offering an opinion. They made the decision to launch. It's not my fault!!! Really!!!"

People were closing in on me now. I felt like my whole body was shaking uncontrollably. My head was spinning. Suddenly, the only person I could see was my wife.

"Wake up, dear. You're having a nightmare. Muttering something about 'bomb the bastards' all night."