5.

Major Bennett Marco was tired.

Exhausted, more like it. This was to be expected of a man who, after thirteen years of continuous nightmares, had come to consider sleep the enemy. His head ached. His hands trembled despite themselves. He'd had the hallucinations before, of course. When experiencing physical or mental fatigue (which, to be fair, was pretty much all the time), Ben often experienced what his psychiatrists generally described as intense, paranoid delusions. Part of him wondered if it was the additional stress of his impending incarceration that accounted for the small child sprawled on the stained linoleum. He had these doubts.

The baby was pointing at him, his expression accusative. "Aha!" the child loudly exclaimed. "You, now you most certainly not Frank Sinatra!"

Thankfully, disorientation was something with which Ben had considerable first-hand experience. Even allowing for his seemingly spontaneous appearance in someone's kitchen, there was something odd about the child seated before him. Something other than the shape of his head, anyway. "There's no way you're old enough to talk," he said firmly, long-forgotten memories of his sister's infant daughter stirring in the recesses of his battered mind. "Sure, you might know a couple of words maybe, but believe me when I say 'Frank Sinatra' doesn't rank up there with 'cookie' and 'daddy'. Who are you working for?"

"Who are you to tell me what I can or cannot do?! Mindless cretin!" the baby sneered before raising his voice to sound the alarm. "Mother! Oh, mother! There is a strange black man in our house!"

Cleveland nodded sagely. "Can I borrow some ketchup?" he asked in his familiar drawl. "We're eating fish sticks, and fish sticks are never the same without ketchup."

Ben stared. Where did he come from?

His thoughts were further interrupted by the sound of a door opening with a crash in the other room. Some shattered glass and a few mild oaths later, the new arrival began to... well, the most charitable word would probably be 'hum', but there was nothing light and cheerful about the cacophonous strains of 'Hail To The Chief' that had launched a vicious and unprovoked attack on his eardrums. He winced.

Peter Griffin strode into the kitchen with as much pomp and circumstance as could be expected of a man providing his own theme music. For all his faults, Stewie was a clever boy. Anticipating trouble, he scrambled beneath the table in the hopes that his father would be suitably deterred by the idea of his having to bend over. Alas, the baby was soon ferreted out, thrashing and kicking all the while, and forcibly kissed on the forehead.

Cleveland stared. "Whatcha doin', Peter?"

This was not well-received. So far as spontaneous shows of affection were concerned, Stewie's patience was wearing understandably thin. Keen on revenge, he bit his father's hand with bestial ferocity. The big man swore, allowing his son to drop to the floor and make good his escape. "Ow! Stupid kids. Well, Cleveland, I've decided to be the next President of the United States!"

"But Peter," Cleveland said, "I thought you said you were going to become a fighter pilot."

Peter is sitting in a noisy arcade in front of a video game consul. The words SUPER ULTRA FLYER PLUS: RAINBOW EDITION! are stenciled on the side. Further inspection reveals the game to be a primitive flight simulator that makes considerable use of cartoon unicorns and perky theme music. Peter plays gleefully until a little boy, no more than eight years of age, taps him gently on the arm and suggests he'd like to play. Without taking his eyes off the game, Peter punches him in the face.

"Yeah," Peter said awkwardly. "That didn't pan out, but I figure President'll be less dangerous, anyway. My fist still smarts something fierce."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Ben said dryly.

Peter turned, apparently noticing the intruder for the first time. He grasped the man by the hand as he imagined politicians ought to do and gave it a hard shake. "What's your name, son?" he said, his smile nauseating.

"Major Ben Marco," he said, rubbing some feeling into his hand. "What am I doing here?"

"Excellent question," said a crisp English voice from the doorway. It seemed that Stewie had returned, and he had brought—friends. The ray gun gleamed in his little hands. His muscle, Rupert, blocked the exit. There would be no escape. "The machine was accidentally activated in my absence," he explained. "I am sorry, Major Marco, but if I were to allow you to live, I would risk losing my tenuous hold on Raymond altogether. You must die!"

Ben stared at him.

Once again displaying her keen sense of timing, Lois arrived in time to avert catastrophe. Sweeping Stewie up into her arms, she deftly disarmed the little boy and set the weapon on a shelf out of his reach. She ignored his cries and protestations. "It isn't polite to point your toys at visitors, Stewie," she scolded. "You can have it back later. You want a cookie? Sure you do, sweetie!" She stuffed a chocolate chip cookie into his mouth and he paid Ben no further attention.

"Wait, do you mean Raymond Shaw? Congressman Raymond Shaw?" For some reason, this particular revelation wasn't as surprising as it probably should have been. His eyes narrowed.

"Oh!" Lois said, chuckling pleasantly. "You must be a friend of Raymond's! Such a nice young man. Isn't he, Stewie?"

Stewie rolled his eyes theatrically and allowed himself the pleasure of an exaggerated sigh. "Oh yes, so nice. Such a nice man. Let's see how nice you think him when preparing to disembowel you with a letter opener."

Ben ignored this. "Where is Shaw now? It's uh, important that I talk with him. As soon as possible, if possible."

"Oh," Peter brayed, "he's off getting plastered with Brian."

Now that was a surprise. "You mean he's drinking?" Ben would be the first to admit that he found the idea of Saint Raymond inebriated amusing. Perhaps it was the idea of his drinking with someone else that was giving him trouble and that, of course, was the ten million dollar question..."Who's Brian?"

"The dog."

Now that was strangely comforting. It was going to be a long, long day.