A million people hate you, Mr. Romero.

Twenty million more champion your cause.

Who will you listen to?

You smile that winning smile of yours as the doors fly open, acting like nothing has changed in three years. Most of the guests play right along, raising their glasses in toast, telling you that you're the man, and you believe them. Why shouldn't you? After all, how many Americans don't know your name? How many of the people in this room don't have some kind of importance? Over there by the wines is Senator Duke, pointing you out to his wife while smiling. Look around- how many of these people aren't in your pocket?

It's much more gratifying to ignore the fact that so many of them are lawyers, though, isn't it? With every degree that you shift your glance, someone from your defense team moves out of your vision and another pops in.

Just think- a month ago, a mere fraction of those lawyers were plenty for your needs.

Now, even Senator Duke tries to keep some distance. You can see his apprehension behind the phony grin as you approach. His eyes move around, making sure no one is paying attention. He hasn't done that with you for three years.

You remember his poor attempt to mask his intrigue with the idea back then. He sat in his office chair saying, "You're going to have a lot of opposition, Robert. It's too radical." But he was already in the bag, precisely because Patriot Nation was radical. Your carefully prepared response sealed the deal.

"That’s why people are going to eat it up, Bill! They say war is horrible, but even the soldiers admit to the fun part of it. We can bring that to peoples' homes. We'll make heroes out of ordinary blokes who would otherwise have served their time and had their service forgotten. Armchair strategists will be eagerly betting on what happens next- the betting, think of the revenue that alone would draw."

"You're putting me in a tough spot by asking this of me."

"You know I'll make it worth your while, Bill."

So you did. You know why his wife can afford that necklace and those gaudy earrings she's wearing. You'd be running from angry bankers if the show hadn't taken off, what with the small fortune you spent just getting it green-lighted.

But oh, how it took off... you know you could never have paid for the publicity that all the controversy gave you. Some new General would appear almost weekly to harp on the same problems as always. "Patriot Nation is a danger to intelligence and a potential resource for the enemy."

"I've always cooperated with the Department of Defense. Nothing we air on the show - satellite images included - isn't already approved by the Army for broadcast," you'd say.

General Jacobs- incidentally, not present at the party- once retorted, "Satellite images aren't my worry, Mr. Romero; the enemy has those anyway. What you are airing on the show are locations deep inside hostile territory- territory that they know by sight, smell and sound. Your cameras are showing the layouts of our bases, our stockpiles, our patrols, hell you're even sneaking in map shots now and then. One of these days the enemy is going to find something useful in there- something they can and will exploit- and we'll be caught off guard."

That particular interview was about a year into the show. By then, even the hosts were clearly on your side. "But General, if the images being shown are such a problem, why is the Army approving them in the first place?"

"My ass we're approving them!" Jacobs spat back. "In case anyone's forgotten, this is wartime. A few decades ago Patriot Nation would never have made the air- now the media can show any bloody thing they want and we can't do a damn thing about it."

You said then, as you say now, that censorship of the press is undemocratic, and it's bloody well the truth. That Patriot Nation made you a millionaire is incidental- you love it now for the same reason that you did when you were just a small time reporter in the field, setting his camera down and lighting a cigarette.

"Long day?" asked a passing soldier.

"You're the one doing the shooting. I'm just filming it."

The soldier took a puff of his own cigarette. "Pissed your pants yet?"

You laughed and said, "Twice." Heh, still makes you laugh.

"Don’t be too hard on yourself. Still scares the crap out of me, and I'm not the civilian here." Then he raised an eyebrow. "What made you take an assignment like this anyway?"

Without a moment's hesitation, you said, "The excitement. Always been fascinated by war. Bugged the hell out of me that I couldn't enlist- parents threatened to cut me off, you see. Would've killed to have some real part of that experience right there at home sometimes."

"Well, can't speak for the rest of these guys, but I hear you. Definitely lots of excitement." The soldier started to return to his patrol. "Decided to take some of the experience home for the other war junkies like you, eh?"

"You could say that."

Ten years later, you did bring the experience home. Why should you regret it? Things had all gone perfectly until that Blair kid found himself in the wrong place.

God, he reminded you so much of yourself- probably why you made him the star of the show. He wasn't scared of the war- when he enlisted, he was eager to dive in and fight for his country. He enjoyed it. A real patriot, a good kid with a good family and good looks- he was born for the part. The controversy brought the audience in for the premier- John Blair kept them there until the very last episode.

You see his parents now, dressed in black and staring daggers at you. You avoid their eyes. It wasn't your fault.

Three years without so much as a hiccup, and then the one day that your opponents fears came true, there was disaster. The enemy shouldn't have known to strike there- critics blamed footage from Patriot Nation as the key to their attack. You and millions watched with your hearts in your throats as Blair desperately tried to cover his squadmates. The camera was shaking uncontrollably, the man behind it not used to being so close to the heat of combat. Neither, at that, was Blair- you'd taken so many precautions to see that he never wound up in the position that was being broadcast that very moment.

You waited too long, damn fool. By the time the networks cut the feed, a mortar shell had landed behind the panicking man. In pieces and in agony, he expired in front of America with a blood-curdling scream.

Even your most vocal supporters were uneasy around you after that. The wave of lawsuits would have bankrupted you, were your defense any less skilled. You even settled with Blair's family. The father is walking up to you now, his face twisted with rage- why are they even here? They'd been dealt with nearly a month ago.

The gun comes out so fast that you don't notice until the sound of the shot. You stand in shock for a moment, wondering if your life should be flashing in front of you. There's no blood. He's so angry... God, oh thank God, he missed. He's being subdued. The gun is knocked from his hand. The guests are screaming. You're alive.

Men- half of them your lawyers- pat you on the back, give you water, ask if you're alright. You sit down, trying to shut out the Blair couple's shouts as they're dragged away.

A million people hate you, Mr. Romero.

Twenty million more champion your cause.

Try as you may to listen to the majority, it's the million that matter, isn't it?