by Editors

 

Congressional Representative Paulino O’Rourke looked at his reflection in the mirror and practiced putting on an honest face. This was getting more and more difficult to do.  His political enemies, including but not limited to President Bam Orama, thought of him as single-minded but sincere. “Little do they know,” he said  sotto voce.  In reality, O’Rourke was in the same devilish league that included ex- VP Ricardo Chancey, Senator Mortimer “The Owl” McDumbell, and former UN Ambassador John Boltface.  They were all followers of that Goddess of Greed, Ayn Rand.

 

O’Rourke was at his secret shrine to the Randy one, having just lit a candle in  memory of the crazy Russian novelist whose dystopian world view envisioned just two classes of people, the very rich and the grinding poor who were enslaved by them. O’Rourke’s ancestors once used to be among the latter, but thanks to the family construction business they were among the elite of  Marysville, Wiscarson.  Irish Mafia, some would say, but the most vocal dissenters usually disappeared by taking a swim in the river wearing concrete boots.  “I might be going to die young,” O’Rourke said grimly, “But I ain’t gonna wind up like no Joe Boffa.”  Paulino always reverted to his family argot when alone.  It tired him to speak grammatically, and he wanted some relief.

 

Meanwhile, Lance Carter was getting no relief as he paced the floor of a Sleep Inn Motel in Queen City, NC. Bam Orama had chosen Queen City for his convention in October, mainly because  Norte Carolina was a swing state, plus the fact that he wanted to see whether the barbeque was better than at 12 Ribs  Lance could have told him otherwise, having sampled the Eastern sort of barbeque in Rollover, NC, and Lance suspected that Queen City barbeque also had the slaw sandwiched in with the pulled pork.  “Ugh,” Lance involuntarily exclaimed, thinking that only where the meat was slow-cooked until it fell off the bone could you make good barbeque.

 

What was disturbing Lance was that Willard Rumnose had chosen O’Rourke as his Vice-Presidential running-mate.  Lance was sure that Cal Stove was behind this pick. Why not go with what was successful in 2000?  Then you had that ignorant tool, Barnaby A. Liar teamed up with Ricardo “Shooter” Chancey.  Stove and his devilish minions made up outrageous lies about a genuine war hero and were able to con the confused electorate into re-electing the clueless one in 2004!  Then “Shooter” rained fire and brimstone on Jiraque and Albasterstam—killing millions of Jiraquis in the process and completely destroying the infrastructure of  Albasterstam .  In the process, as well, many brave men and women in the U.S. military forces died—some by friendly fire, when frustrated enlisted men “fragged” an officer or two.

 

Well, thought Lance, no need to think about that now. That’s water under the Bridge of Avignon, as the French are wont to say.  Speaking of the French, Lance reminded himself, that the right-winged  midget, Nickleass Sarcophgi had recently been dethroned as the PM of France. “Vive la France!” Lance exclaimed, only there was no one to hear his shout. Then he felt a twinge of remorse for expressing his joy.  Poor Nickleass, he thought; now Carlotta Brunetta will dump him and find someone more suitable to lavish her charms on. Well, that’s three in a row—first Berloser in Italia, then Muburrhead in Egypt, and now Sarcophgi in France—three right-wing clowns down the tubes (then he shuddered ,thinking) and in Muburrhead’s case he might really be sent tubing down the Nile, sort of like Moses in the bulrushes only with a different result.

 

Lance began musing about how nice it would be if a sloppy wet storm named ‘Ichabod’, would drown out the Repugnican Convention in Tampaxa, Floridiana. Wouldn’t it be fitting, Lance thought, if the Homegrown Security forces were as clueless as they had been in N’Awlins, forcing rich, white, pork-faced businessmen to huddle together, in damp underwear as they waited for leaky boats to take them to dry land.  “Oh, well,” said Lance to himself, “What goes around comes around.”

 

As Lance fretted about whether President Bam Orama would deliver the goods at the Dem Convention, Bam himself was getting a dressing down from his wife in their spacious lakeshore home.  Bam was intent on listening to a Cubbies game, but he couldn’t  ignore his wife, who snatched the remote out of his hands and turned off the TV.

 

“Hey,” said Bam plaintively, “I was watching that game.”

 

“Well, why don’t you watch me for a change,” said  his beautiful wife, hands on hips and fire in her eyes. “Why are you still kow-towing to those banksters? You know darned well that they are way off base, just using their ill-gotten gains to feather their own nests.”

 

“Aw, I need that corporate money to get re-elected.  Then I’ll be able to do what I’d planned to do all along.  Shore up Social Security, protect the unions, rein in the DOD’s wasteful spending. But honey, I need that corporate money.”

 

Michaela Orama looked at her husband with an incredulous stare. “Are you serious? You got elected in 2008 because people sent in five and ten bucks at a time. You didn’t need corporate money then, and you don’t need it now.”

 

The President slumped in his chair.  She was right, he thought.  She was always right. I don’t know why I thought needed little Timmy the Treasurer and Larry Winter, the econ adviser.  The latter was kicked out of his presidency at Havahd by women faculty who found him obnoxious and stupid. But Axelhead had said he needed the expertise of the brainy Timothy, he of the dubious tax returns and a cushy job waiting for him at Golden and Schwartz after entering the revolving door of politics and big business.

 

It was clear to Lance what was going on. Although the know-nothing branch of the Supremes were shaken by the Chief Justice’s ruling that Obamacare was lawful, they still had the Citizens-Divided decision to serve as a model for corporate excess. Now the so-called SuperPacs could rain money down so as to bamboozle an electorate that was too dazed by day-to-day living to see behind the lies spread by Repugnican flacks and goons.

 

Meanwhile, in Tampaxa, Repugnican Party faithful wrung out their wet underwear to cheer in mindless lunacy as Willard Rumnose introduced Pauletto O’Rourke as the new Ricardo Chancey, who at the time, was snorting and wheezing as his wife gave his Oxycodone to ease the persistent and painful beating of the steel monster in his chest.

 

O’Rourke basked in the limelight as the drones of the lamestream press showed him with his kids, who, with their mother had been coached to look “All American,” even as she hated what Pauley had turned their life into.  He’s a lying scumbag, she thought, even as she waved to the crowd, her kids mesmerized by the attention. He’ll never know that I voted for Bam Orama, she thought.  At least Orama wanted to give women a chance at the good life, instead of being confined to the kitchen and the nursery. Oh, to be a Republican wife, a good sport and a sexual plaything, she mused. I sometimes have the urge to hit Pauley on the head with a coffee mug, the way that a USTA Referee recently dispatched  her abusive husband.   Always serve coffee in a paper cup, a friend advised Pauley, you never know what goes on in a woman’s head.

 

Lance suddenly found himself drifting away in the arms of Morpheus.  Damn, he said to himself as he floated into a dream world, I forgot to call Lara.  Oh well, it’s a good bet that she’ll understand…

Chronicles of the Shade – Part III – Episode 4

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