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Politics, Part I

It was as hot a Saturday as any other in Pittsville, Massachusetts. Birds fell out of the air en masse and en flammes, air conditioners-- blasting from the windows of every home-- threatened to shut down the electrical grid, and the temperature was such that a curious soul could fry an egg on a sidewalk. The wisdom of those who might consume such an egg, however, would be suspect. Some might say that this sort of person would have to be a bit cracked.

It was a fine day to stay at home, perfect for rotting on a couch and watching a marathon of formulaic cop shows as the artificial butter from fistfuls of microwave popcorn dribbled onto one’s chin.

Inside of his nicely air-conditioned, dull red ranch house, Jay Grimes flicked back and forth between two cop shows, Blue Justice and Hardbeat, satisfied with neither but too unimaginative to do anything else. As he watched Detective Gary Fontana beat a suspected loiterer to within an inch of his life, Jay’s phone rang its slack-toned ring. He rolled off of his couch, leaving a deep impression of his body on his furniture, and unhurriedly answered the phone.

“Hello, whom may I ask is calling?” grumbled Jay, simultaneously trying to listen to the phone and the brutal interrogation of an eleven-year old truant piece of human scum on Law vs. Evil.

“Hello, Mr. Jay… Grimes Yes, Grimes. My name is Susan; I work for the Mark Giles Re-election Committee. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” chirped a peppy voice.

Mark Giles was the incumbent Republican Governor of the state. Under his leadership over the past sixteen years, budgets for education, healthcare, and other welfare programs favored by pinko communist bastards had been reduced to practically nothing. Massachusetts had become the only state in the union to allow private citizens to own machine guns, armored tanks, jet fighters, aircraft carriers, and inter-continental ballistic missiles. The state and local police forces had been entirely privatized. Taxes had been drastically lowered for those who needed it the most: the financially anemic innovators present in the $200,000 and up bracket. Mr. Giles had been very busy, and Jay Grimes simply enjoyed that a sensible man had finally made his way into Beacon Hill.

“Oh, golly, sure! I’m a big supporter of the governor,” gushed Jay.

“That’s great! Okay, here’s question number one: if Representative Davis, our principal competitor, was convicted of credit fraud, assault, grand theft auto, evading arrest, assault on a police officer, murder, treason, and public consumption of human blood, all due to events on or near the night of July 4th, 1989, would you be more or less likely to vote for him? Keep in mind that this question is purely hypothetical and is not meant to be factual, necessarily,” bubbled the caller.

“I’d never vote for him ever! I’d sooner eat my own right hand!” broiled Jay.

“That’s nice. Alright, could you describe Governor Giles in one sentence for me?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s a great man. I’d die for him in a heartbeat. I love him unconditionally, and if it were biologically possible, I’d want to have his child,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“That’s just great! Would you mind if we used that in a radio or television commercial?” she ventured.

“Ma’am,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes and then getting caught in his rather fat eyelids, “I’d be honored if you were to do so.”

“That’s all I have for now. You have a good day, Mr. Grimes,” she said, happy that she’d found a reasonable constituent of Mr. Giles’, not like that strange Bixby fellow who she’d called moments before.

Trent Bixby luxuriated on his beanbag, a green, red, and blue patchwork piece that had been passed down through his family over the thirty years. Four fans pointed directly at him, all of them set to level four, which is three times as powerful as level three, and is therefore extremely dangerous, but rewarding, for those who dare to experience its power.

His radio, an antique and beautiful Philco 70 from the 1920s, blared WFUD, a local pirate radio station that played an eclectic mixture of progressive rock, eighties pop, world music, and avant-garde classical in addition to hosting a daily five hour long call-in show. The show, Barry Williams’ Futuristic Voyage, was something Trent could not do without. Luckily, it was broadcasting for the time being, as it would hopefully continue to do so in spite of the various hazards braved by a radio station that is broadcasted from a rusty 1991 Ford Aerostar.

“Governor Giles has got to go! He is a menace to society, the state, and the civil rights of every man, woman, and child!” shouted Roderick, the host, whose name was certainly not as he claimed for reasons both legal and social. Trent nodded in agreement, though he would prefer that the word “go” be replaced with “be drawn and quartered.” Having served on the board of trustees at his alma matter, Giles had been responsible for the loss of fifty percent of his scholarship to Thatherton College, a small, liberal arts school where Trent had earned a degree in the culture and philosophy of mid-20th century America. It was unofficially known as “Popular Studies for People Who Don’t Want to Work in a Real Job Ever,” and it suited Trent Bixby just fine. The debt that had piled upon him, a result of a squeeze for funding as Giles pushed for a military science program, though, fit quite uncomfortably.

He didn’t want a real job; he wanted to lounge and sleep and listen to good music until he died, and he didn’t see a point in doing anything else. He occasionally sold an abstract painting or two of his for extra cash, though he had an interesting landlord who, as long as she didn’t have to maintain her property, didn’t bother Trent much about the rent. It was a mutually irresponsible, mutually satisfactory arrangement.

The Futuristic Voyage started cutting out in spots, much to the chagrin of Trent. A wackjob caller had just been complaining about a Zionist conspiracy that managed to involve aliens, the cloning of Elvis as a super soldier, and the Red Sox. Like nothing else, he enjoyed hearing crazies talking about reality as they saw it; it was like peeking into an alternate and terrifying reality. Very surreal, very profound, a little unstable, just what Trent thought of himself. Suddenly, a new signal took over the band, a clear, loud, obnoxious signal that dared to carry a Mark Giles campaign commercial over an Elvis-based conspiracy theory. Trent tried to get up and change the station, though his own sweat was working against him: he was stuck to the beanbag. Resigning himself to his fate, he leaned back and hoped to get a laugh out of the propaganda.

“My name is Bort Samson, and I’m voting for Governor Giles because he wants to protect my children from the coloreds!”

“Racist fascist!” he shouted.

“My name is Sara Tennison and I’m voting for Governor Giles because I believe in both him and Him, the lord almighty!”

“Antidisestablishmentarian wackjob!”

“My name is Yancy Fatbone and I’ll cast my vote for Mr. Giles because I believe in my right to protect my family. Oh, and I hate poor people.”

“Violent Plutocrat!”

“My name is Jay Grimes and I’m voting for Governor Giles because he is a great man. I love him unconditionally, and if it were biologically possible I would want to have his child.”

“Freak!”

“I’m your governor, Mark Giles, and I approved of this message. I’m voting for me because I enjoy the sense of power that only the executive branch can provide.”

“Argh!”

Trent narrowed his eyes, recognition flashing across his face. That Jay Grimes guy, he was his neighbor, a conservative ideologue who often called the police about the mysterious odors that sometimes came from Trent’s extremely lived-in home. There wasn’t really anything wrong with it; a few broken windows here and there, a front door that never could stay closed, and the third through sixth layers of paint (white, red, green, and blue, respectively) were only peeling slightly. He was so anti-fun, thought Trent. “That’s it!” he yelled, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m takin’ care of that Grimes guy!” Grabbing a dirty spatula from his scratched, hardwood floor, Trent managed to separate himself from the beanbag while simultaneously leaving a delicious trail of old spaghetti sauce across his back. That was from yesterday’s lunch. “Eh,” he let slip, wiping the sauce away with a dirty t-shirt. He walked over to his closet, full of stylish vintage duds, and picked out a sharp black suit and his very narrowest of black ties. He picked a photograph of a shaggy grey llama up off of a shelf in the closet; tears swelled in his eyes. “Frank Nelson,” he whimpered. Trent vigorously blinked his eyes a few times, and tucked the photo into a coat pocket. He picked up his phone, a cheap knock-off of a Kellogg candlestick, and slowly dialed Jay’s number.

Over at 14 Cambridge Street, a phone rang inside a dull red, ranch-styled home. Its inhabitant picked it up somewhat hesitantly. A muffled voice on the other end simply said, “Mr. Grimes, the game is afoot,” and then the call was terminated by a very loud click on the caller’s end. Mr. Grimes was quite puzzled, not sure of what to do next. Had he a lick of sense, he might have used one of the myriad features granted to him by his phone company, Black Windowless Tower Communications, to find who’d just disturbed him. Instead, he leaned back on his black Italian leather couch, turned his air conditioning system up as high as it could via his touchscreen universal remote control, and grinned as he watched Officer Rick “The Slick Pizza Man” Sullivan work over a jay-walker with nothing more than his nightstick and a few year’s worth of know-how. There certainly was an art to severely breaking ribs while leaving vital organs relatively undamaged. It’s something I might like to learn, sometime, thought Mr. Grimes. That’d be cool— real cool. Leaving a mental note to himself to check out some stick-based martial arts classes, he dozed off, not even noticing the striking brown eyes of one Mr. Trent Bixby peering in at him through a front window.

Part II!

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