A MeanMesa Fiction - "The Candidate"

The Story's "Quick Intro"

MeanMesa isn't the only one sitting in a state of horror while watching the now famous, relentless, endless, Republican "debates" on the old tele.  Public opinion for the GOPCon party brand has not yet mortally "crashed and burned," but only because viewers are too shocked to answer the phone calls from the pollsters.

So, what could be more fun than a little "comic relief?"  Let's tell the tale of the latest GOPCon candidate on the morning he discovers that he's lurched forward in GOPCon Primary Voter Appeal to "first place!"

Well, perhaps we have all wondered just what it would feel like to suddenly be thrust to the number one position.  What could possibly ruin the wonderful day when the entire GOP field became a "cherry on your tree?"

Let's spend a few minutes with "the candidate" on the morning that the great news rolls into the executive office of his campaign.  It wouldn't bother MeanMesa in the least to just go ahead and attach a name to "the candidate," but if that were done, it would permanently date the whole story because they change so often.

The Candidate

Saturated with an over spent luxury only possible with a giant Citizens United PAC money war che$t, the full executive staff of the campaign was milling around excitedly, waiting for the candidate to arrive from his pent house suite on the floor below.

Finally, the bedraggled Republican tottered into the room, immediately receiving a cup of morning coffee from his overly beautiful administrative assistant, Ms. FullBlossum-Eagerly.  Her ever so slightly post teen age face was sparkling and excited as she breathlessly informed him that the campaign's manager was waiting for him in the candidate's palatial office -- waiting for him with some great news!

As predicted, the campaign manager stood as the candidate entered his executive office.  The candidate absent mindedly punched the red button at his expansive desk, activating the anti-bugging electronics and shutting off the automatic recorder his largest campaign contributor had insisted on wiring into the place.

He settled in the $5,000 chair behind his desk and took the first sip of his morning coffee.

"Okay, Smithers, what's come up now?"  the candidate asked with the woeful expectation of being confronted with the latest political crisis.

"Good news, sir.  In fact, spectacular news!  The latest polls of Republican Primary Voters are in, and, and, we're on top!  We moved up 6% points over night, and now we're 3% ahead of the old front runner!"  Smithers exploded gleefully.

"Oh NO!  We're at the head of the pack??!!" (image source)

His face suddenly stone grey, the candidate thumbed his intercom switch to Ms. FullBlossum-Eagerly's desk in the office outside.  "Put in an emergency call to my therapist, Dr. Calmer."

Slowly returning to consciousness, the candidate mechanically turned to face Smither's.  "Christ almighty!!  How could you let this happen, Smithers?  Has Rove or someone put out a hit on me?"

"How could you let this happen??!!" (image source)

Coursing through the candidate's mind were images of all the other Republican candidates who had, at some unfortunate point in their campaigns, arrived at precisely the same horrible place.  He was a man squarely facing the deathly prospect of being the next victim of the meat grinder.

The candidate knew all too well the only outcome possible for a "front runner" when the wheel chair riding serial killer tea baggers got their first, unapproving glimpse of his new status.

"Smithers, you know we decided that we wouldn't take this chance until we were inches away from winning the primary!  Now, here I am, pitched out like raw pastrami in the waiting line to the candidate cemetery!"  yelled the candidate, now sobbing.

"Some of these people were my friends, Goddammit.  Now look at them!  Hell!  Now look at me?  How long do you think we're going to last once those impossible conservative purity tests start rolling in?"  the candidate murmered in a disconsolate mumble.  He placed his head in his hands as his thoughts became even darker.

The candidate's special, secret, safe place.(image source)

"They're going to eat me alive.  Josef Goebbels couldn't get through something like this.  Smithers, they cheered when they brought up the executions!  They cheered when they decided that the sick 30 year old guy had to die because he didn't have health insurance!"  the candidate lamented.

"Dammit!  I've done a lot of savage, brutal stuff during my political career.  I always thought that it would be enough to satisfy them, enough to keep me safely under the horizon long enough to maybe win the primary.  But no!  They want blood -- pure neo-con blood -- and they won't settle for anything less!"  the candidate continued.  Smithers was beginning to look worried.

The candidate stood, staring pensively across his office.  

"Maybe if I were to just flip-flop on a few issues that meant nothing to our contributors, the polls would break back, returning us to second or third place.  We could creep back up from there just in time for the first few state primaries." he mused.

"I'm afraid it's too late for that.  Once news like this hits the airwaves, it spreads like wildfire.  And, once they've heard your name, the tea bags will be happy and relieved for a few minutes, then they'll start in on you.  You know how this works."  Smithers offered.

"They won't remember anything about you or the campaign once they hear that their cousin or some right wing bartender doesn't like you.  They won't know why, but once the killer instinct is aroused, they won't quit until the next front runner falls into the trap."  the aide turned to the door of the office because of the growing noise outside in the staff room.

"What's going on out there?  What's all that noise?"  the candidate asked in  a blank sort of dejected monotone.

"That's the media.  By this time the entire place is packed with paparazzi.  FOX News might have been there first, but by now every network has shown up with a camera.  We won't be able to get out of here without facing them and their questions."  Smithers grumbled, looking worried.  He noticed that the candidate had become totally fixated, his empty eyes staring at the 13th floor window behind his desk.

"Why doesn't the staff shut them up?  Why hasn't security thrown them all out of here?"  the candidate asked desperately.

"The staff is gone.  They all had jobs lined up in case this happened.  The only two members of the campaign still left are me and Ms. FullBlossum-Eagerly.  She's only here because she was too stupid to run for it.  Plus, she was probably emailing the last of my resumes when the reporters broke through."  Smithers answered.

"I wouldn't worry about her, though.  She's a knock out, and she'll find a home somewhere in no time now that she's got experience." the aide added nonchalantly.

A new thought was clearly moving into the candidate's mind.  His constant stare at the picture window was beginning to be quite unsettling to his campaign manager.

"It was Gingrich.  They resurrected that old corpse from his sepulchre after they got so freaked out by Romney.  He set this up -- it's just like him!  The old bird fired up the dirty tricks squad, and they did this to me!  God, how did I miss it?  I should have seen it coming."  the candidate muttered, his eyes bulging as if they were on fire -- the only remaining sign of life on his now morbidly sallow face.

The Gingrich grave had been opened -- again.

Smithers was almost amused that his old boss had taken so long to see through the scheme.  In fact, he was smiling broadly as he opened the door to the outer office.

"The candidate will see you all now."  he announced matter-of-factly to the mayhem awaiting access to the latest front runner.  Stepping aside quickly, he could see the candidate struggling to lift his executive office chair high enough to break out the window.

Deep behind those bloodshot eyes, a final thought coursed through the candidate's last moments.  "Maybe I should have called my wife."