by Editors

Lance and Lara sat stunned in their bedroom suite at the Carlyle. The first  debate had just concluded and Bam Orama had bombed!  How could the articulate President who had accomplished so much fall prey to the one-per-center mantra that fell trippingly from Dullard Rumnose’s empty head. Lance was disconsolate. “It’s that damn Axelhead,” he grumbled.  “That stupid left-over from Bam’s campaign in 2008, the one who sabotaged him in 2010. Why did he keep that loser on?  Why didn’t he sack both Axelhead and Poofe?”

 

Lara rubbed the back of Lance’s neck.  “It’s just that he feels a loyalty to them, sweetheart. Surely, you know that he can’t just dump the pair that helped bring him to the presidency, don’t you?”

 

Lance knew no such thing.  He knew that Bam Orama would do the right thing if only he were able to get re-elected. But now the corporate money that flowed to him in 2008, out of fear that the fat-cats wouldn’t have a seat at the table–and then flowed to the Repugs in 2010, after the Affordable Care Act passed–was now flowing faster than ever to the empty-headed drone and his sinister cohort, Pauley O’Rourke.  Now that the five idiots on the SCOTUS had concocted  the “Citizens Divided”  decision, everything was in place to solidify  the new Gilded Age that had begun with Reagan.  Lance sighed.  Despite the stupidity of Orama’s dumbwad duo, there had to be a way of lightening the load of the albatross that Bam found slung around his neck.

 

“I don’t know why people read the lame-stream media,” groused Lance. “All they’re doing is wanting to sell the sizzle, picking on something as lame as a “one-percenter talk session” in order to say it’s still a horse race.”

 

“But that’s what makes it a horse race, Lance,” said Lara wisely.  “Just one little mistake can turn everything around.”  Lara was thinking of chaos theory, and the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing being able to affect the price of tea in Boston.

 

Although Lance was impressed with chaos theory and the accidents that could affect even the best laid plans of mice and men, he thought that the ripple effect was over-rated.  Surely, there was a moment of space-time in which the ripples played out and had no bearing on events, resulting in what some would call “don’t cares.” If there were no such things as “don’t cares,” then we would be at the mercy swerves in the space-time continuum, a condition in which rational choice had no bearing on the future.  Lance could not bring himself to believe this.

Lance brought his consciousness back to the central question at issue. What could Bam Orama do to salvage his reputation as an intelligent, articulate speaker?

 

Suddenly, Lance had an idea. He would get in touch with Wilby Good. (Those of you who have followed the adventures of The Shade know that Wilberforce B. Good was Lance’s long-lost cousin, someone whom coincidence had put on the same space-time line.)  Lance retrieved his cell phone and punched in the number.

 

“Hello,” a sleepy voice answered, “This is Wilby.”

 

“Wilby?  It’s Lance.  Sorry to be calling so late.”

 

“That’s OK,” said Wilby, rubbing his eyes. His mouth felt fuzzy from the evening’s entertainment, which consisted of drinking double Scotches as he perused the latest shenanigans in Harper’s Magazine—the widespread intimidation of minority voters in the state of Yahohio, plus the plan to “lose” votes in the Yahohio River when voting machines would accidentally fall off trucks that were on their way to the private vote-counting houses of Slyhold Voting Machines. All this would be under the watchful eye of the Repugnican governor, Jim Cashits, who, besides being the slimiest character in the Yahohio State House, was known to take a few thousand bucks a week from household expenses to the “Casino on the River,” where he was able to cadge drinks from the owners in return for not collecting taxes owed  for gambling on the river.

 

“I need you to look into something for me, Wil,” said Lance. “ Lara and I are in Nuevo York for the second debate, so I need someone to see why it is that the election numbers are so close. It’s too late for you to get to the site of debate number two, but can you get to the site of the third debate and see what the heck Durwood Poofe is doing?  It seems as if he’s turning a sure thing into a game of chance.”

 

Wilby knew what Lance was referring to.  Poofe, in his colossal ignorance was claiming that he was concentrating on just four battleground states, one of which of Yaohio.  He was willing to give up all of the South except for Floridana and Norte Carolina, and all of the most of the Southwest, knowing that Nuevo York and Califragilista would be solidly in the Dem column. The other battleground was said to be Pencilmania.  Rumor had it that Poofe was going to put all of the advertising into those four battlegrounds, concentrating only on the presidency and neglecting the House races that would be important to Bam Orama should he gain re-election.

 

What a dumb bunny, thought Wilby, echoing the thought that Lance was having at the same time. Didn’t Poofe and Axelhead know that there were races that could be won, especially by women candidates, but if the money dried up, then those races would probably seat foaming- at-the-mouth tea partiers (who are really middle-aged men with a grudge against women and a racist streak a mile long).

 

Wilby turned on his bed lamp and looked at his watch.  A little after midnight.  He reckoned he could get a red-eye down to Boca Mousito and take a bus to Limehouse University, where the final debate would be held.  He knew a few reporters who worked for MSNBC who were always ready to share scuttlebutt about the dirty tricks the Repugnicans were planning.  Maybe they would also confirm the fact that Poofe and Axelhead were ready to sacrifice the House of Representatives just so they could pour money into the four battleground states.

 

As Wilby checked the airline times from the Queen City to Boca Mousito, he grimaced as he saw that the most convenient flight landed at Miami Airport. He groaned inwardly, remembering that airport as being the most confusing that can be imagined. He wished he could have landed in Atlanta, but instead he would have to get a cab at premium prices for the 50 mile ride to Boca Mousito.  He made a special note to himself to bring his English-Spanish dictionary, because the cabbie would probably want to make conversation about the latest fiesta on 8^th Street.  Oh, well, he thought, better to get there early and find some lodgings. It would give him some time to get a lay of the land.  He was hoping that Bam Orama would come out firing in the second debate.  Actually, he felt quite confident that he would.

 

Meanwhile, Lance was up and about, thinking that he would pay a visit to the editorial offices of the Nuevo Times-Two, the most virulent right-wing newspaper in the United States. He thought that if he could gather information about Repugnican plans to sabotage the election, he might be able to scotch them.

 

“Where are you going this time of night?” asked Lara, knowing from his demeanor that he had made up his mind to do something and wouldn’t be deterred.

 

“Just restless,” said Lance, throwing on some clothes. “I think I’ll take a cab down to the park and walk around a bit, just to clear my head.”

 

“You watch yourself down there,” said Lara, remembering a time when she had been accosted by two drunken sailors. Little did they know that she had taken martial arts lessons for some time, and had left the sailors thinking that their ship had been torpedoed and they had been cast up on the beach.

 

“Don’t worry,” said Lance, as he kissed Lara goodnight. “I know how to defend myself.”

Then Lance took the elevator to the ground floor, hailed a cab and was on his way to the Times-Two editorial offices. He felt sure that he would be able to use his powers of distraction to gain entry into their inner sanctum, and perhaps even catch a couple of their reporters engaged in discussing all the dirty tricks that the Repugs planned to use in the days leading up to the election.  One such trick had been already bruited about.  Little Donny Crump, he of the flaming hair, had announced that he had an October surprise. Well, thought Lance, there was nothing surprising about a man who was leveraged to the hilt and spouted the craziest nonsense this side of Peoria.  He was sure that Crump was merely a distraction.  Other more sinister doings were in the works, he felt sure, and he had little time to discover what they were.

 

 

 

 

Chronicles of the Shade – Part III – Episode 6

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