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US Presidental Election 2000:
That's The Ticket! (MM, hum, scfi, caution, slash)
by Vali (loki@netnitco.net)
***
DISCLAIMERS AND DISTRIBUTION RIGHTS: This is a work of political satire,
and as such, is protected by the US Bill of Rights. It is not intended
to portray any of the actual activities of the real people in this story.
It should not be taken as a factual portrayal of the public figures
within, their beliefs, private lives, or sexual proclivities. You may
repost this to any free newsgroup/forum/whatever, as long as the author's
names and this disclaimer remains intact. However, any archiving (except
for the ASSM archive) may only be done with permission from the authors.
SLASH IS: MM/FF romances and erotica, mostly written by and for
heterosexual and bisexual women. Most, but not all of it is fanfiction.
The two men walked silently, lost in their own, diametrically opposed
thoughts. Bill Bradley's heart beat rapidly, befitting a man in love.
Al Gore's beat slowly, very slowly, befitting some manner of
cold-blooded swamp creature intent on snagging another mouthful of
flies. Bill cast his eyes up to the skies. It was such a lovely,
crystal-clear D.C. day, such a beautiful day to be in love...
"Bill!" a voice shouted, cutting into his reverie. A very familiar
voice. "BILL!"
Bill's head whipped around, just in time to see John McCain being
shoved unceremoniously into a long black limousine by a good
half-dozen nattily dressed thugs. John broke the headlock long enough
to gasp for breath.
"Don't do it, Bill!" he called out. "Don't do it! He's a madman, I
tell you, a MADMAAAAANNNN..."
The remainder of his words were lost as the thugs shoved him into the
backseat and drove him away. Bill gaped in astonishment, then turned
to Al, who shrugged indifferently.
"Hey, those Vietnam vets," Al offered. "They're all fuckin' powder
kegs."
Bill thought that one over. "Well...you should know," he finally
offered, opening the car door.
********
As the rental car sped down K Street, another vehicle followed
unwittingly in its path.
It was a lightweight, compact, yet exquisitely constructed
motorscooter, its seat of perfect ergonomic design and its engines
geared toward maximum fuel efficiency with a minimum of harmful
environmental exhaust. Its rider sat with ramrod posture, frowning
intently at the traffic from beneath his helmet and goggles, black
wool suit itching persistently under the full-body protective armor.
A rental car, its inhabitants' faces hidden by the tinted windows,
almost sent him flying. He darted neatly around it, sending an
obscene arm gesture at the gas-guzzling morons huddled inside.
"HEY!" he shouted. "You're unsafe at *any* speed, asswipe!"
Muttering under his breath about the sheer idiocy of the human race,
plans for the subjugation of heartless multinational corporations and
the ultimate liberation of humankind from the bonds of unfettered
capitalism dancing through his head, Ralph Nader zipped between car
after truck as he made his way to the Watergate Hotel.
********
Body armor and helmet removed, he walked through the lobby, his
presence noted only by a pair of giggling blond teenage girls who took
him for H.R. Haldeman, or possibly H.R. Puffnstuff (they weren't
particularly bright giggling blond teenage girls). He ignored them,
heading upstairs to room 1409. No sooner had he closed the door than
he was enveloped in a rush of kisses and the fervent embrace of his
lover.
"Darling," breathed George Stephanopoulos. "It's been too long--"
His words were smothered beneath the force of the consumer crusader's
hot, sensual mouth. They staggered as one toward the bed, tossing the
covers aside.
"I'll show you some goddamned gonadal politics," Ralph murmured, as
his mouth found warm, yielding flesh.
"Yes," George moaned, "yes! Ram me like a Ford Pinto with a FULL TANK
OF GAS!"
********
"So," Ralph asked after a lengthy interval, "how goes Operation Uncle
Sam?"
George tightened the belt of his organic-cotton terrycloth robe,
looking thoughtful. "Our agents' infiltration of the national media
continues," he reported. "The subliminal messages I leave during my
concise, yet witty ABC political analyses, exhorting the masses to
throw off the chains of capitalist oppression while at the same time
*not* substituting an archaic and unworkable,
civil-liberties-trampling command state economy, will surely turn the
national polls our way. Arise, ye prisoners of starvation!"
Ralph nodded in satisfaction. "Excellent work, comrade," he replied
with a sensual smile. "We'll find that third path if it kills us,
dammit. Reduce, reuse, recycle! Welfare need, not corporate greed!"
Overcome by Ralph's romantic words, George kissed him. The two lovers
reached for each other once again...
Then heard a peculiar knock at their hotel room door: one short, two
long, one short. Exchanging glances, they headed for the door,
opening it but leaving the chain on.
"The owl dances at midnight," George said.
"My pants are exploding," said the hotel waiter.
"Hey, that's *my* ten-gallon hat," said Ralph.
"The Barbie dolls grow restless," said the hotel waiter. "The
typewriters fondle numerous cows."
Ralph nodded. "What say you, comrade?"
The waiter leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "The Stepford
Eagle has landed," he said. "And he's *right next door to you.*
Right now."
Without another word, he was gone. Ralph and George stared at each
other, stunned, then quickly sprang into action.
********
In a top-secret compound located somewhere near the sewage-choked Rio
Grande, the most powerful right-wing lunatics in the nation huddled
together in a cavernous conference room. The raised dais in the
center of the room glowed ominously; the glass-encased brain enshrined
upon it pulsated hideously, a Jello casserole from Satan's grandma.
The men kept their eyes averted, focusing instead on their King James
Bibles and a well-thumbed, suspiciously stained vintage copy of Ed
Meese's attorney-general report on pornography.
"So," said James Dobson at long last, removing his hand from his
pants, "what say you good white Christian heterosexual incredibly
wealthy gentlemen?"
Ralph Reed smirked, looking every bit the bug-eyed nasty-ass overgrown
schoolboy he was. "I say we put our plan into action
immediately." He gestured respectfully toward the huge quivering
brain in the center of the room. "Southern Baptist prayer in all the
schools, women *back* in the home where they belong, public
executions, no television but the Christian Broadcasting Network and a
big old circle-jerk for all
of us!" His eyes shone with anticipation. "Oh yeah, and kill the
queers. Gotta remember to do that."
Paige Patterson nodded, pulling out a small notebook and writing this
down. "And don't forget, conversions of *all* Jews, Muslims,
Catholics, secular humanists and members of every other religion we're
too megalomaniacal to permit to exist on the same planet. Whether
they want it or not!" He looked thoughtful. "Except for the *queer*
Jews and Muslims and stuff. Them's toast."
There was a silent chorus of nods.
"So how do we start the plan?" asked the leader of the Exodus
International delegation, all his fellow ex-gays covertly fondling one
another whenever any backs were turned.
"The mass 'prayers' before Southern high school football games are our
opening weapon," explained Dobson, pulling out a laser pointer and
twirling it like a baton. "The various stadiums at which the
so-called 'spontaneous' prayers break out have been wired with special
sensors that activate whenever the words 'Jesus Christ' are
pronounced.
They emit a colorless, odorless gas that takes the brain cells of the
surrounding experimental subjects--I mean fine upstanding American
citizens--and *squeezes* them like a big ol' fist..."
"It *literally* narrows their minds!" interrupted Ralph Reed, almost
jumping up and down with delight. "Can ya *stand* it?" He cast a
fond glance back at the brain, which appeared to be sleeping in some
fashion. "Whoever knew Our Reagan's cerebrospinal fluid could have
such a deliciously deleterious affect on the masses? Praise God!"
There was an ominous thunderclap outside, God apparently not too
pleased at what was being wrought in His ostensible name. The
building being soundproofed, nobody inside heard it.
"Elegant," mused Dick Cheney, turning reluctantly away from his game
of Duke Nukem. "Magnificently so. But how do we spread the virus
beyond a few cracker-ass football fields?"
"Those were merely the testing grounds," responded Jerry Falwell,
ogling the full-frontal nudes of Dr. Laura plastered all over the
room. "We've also tried it out at Promise Keepers rallies,
Disneyland, Dollywood, the Seattle trade demonstrations, Rage Against
the Machine concerts, Mumia Abu-Jamal protests, poetry slams--any
place you're apt to find a bunch of mindless twerps twittering the
fashionable party line, we're there. And it works on *all* of them,
ALL of them! Praise Jesus!"
He cackled with glee, studying the centerfolds even more closely; the
photographer had done a lovely job, he thought, airbrushing the
telltale Jewish horns from Laura's bleached-blond skull. "As soon as
the time is right," he continued, "Uncle Ronnie's Laughin' Gas (tm)
will be pumped into every air vent, heating duct and city water
reservoir in this country. The people will be brought to their knees!
They will unthinkingly embrace every *last* bit of nauseating
right-wing pap we shovel down their ungrateful commie-liberal throats
and WE SHALL RULE THE WORLD!!"
The surrounding conspirators burst into heartfelt applause. The
furtive mass fondling on the Exodus side of the room grew instantly
more fervent.
"But Most Righteous Very Vested Incredible Splendiferous Reverend,
sir," Dubya whined annoyingly, "when's all this gonna *happen?* I got
an
election to win, y'know..."
Falwell fell silent, staring reverently at the fulminating mass of
gray matter that cast a shadow over the room. "When *he* tells us,"
he whispered. "And not before. For his wisdom is for all times and
places, and not of this earth. And there's really cool special
effects, too. Praise
Reagan! Praise Jesus!"
"PRAISE REAGAN!" shouted the conspirators. "PRAISE JESUS!"
The smell of sulphur was almost overpowering, but none of them seemed
to notice it.
********
No sooner had they hit the hotel lobby than Al patted down his suit
pockets, and cursed under his breath. "Uh, go on upstairs...uh,
honey." He grimaced at the word. "I gotta hit the drugstore--"
He was out the door again in a flash, Bill staring after him
adoringly. Such a progressively cautionary attitude toward, er, uh,
you-know-what! Such wonderful *courtesy* toward his partners and the
delicate issue of their venereal health and well-being! Al *was* a
progressive thinker, gosh darn it, no matter what all those cynical
journalists said...
Bill smiled to himself as he opened the door to Room 1411, flinging
himself fully dressed on the bed with the sigh of an infatuated
teenager. His heart beat with the anticipation of what was to come:
the tender caresses, the tremulous first embraces, the heat of mutual
passion, the ceaseless declarations of undying love that would soon be
his, *all* his...
Distracted as he was, it took a moment for the repeated knock on the
door to register. "Al?" Bill called out, somewhat foolhardily. "Is
that you?"
"Candygram," responded a nasal little voice.
How *sweet!* Bill tripped toward the door, flung it impetuously
open...
And found himself full-nelsoned by a hotel waiter, who pinned his arms
to his sides and hustled him into the room next door before he could
even react.
"Hey!" Bill cried, wrestling in vain against his apparent assailant.
"I'm a United States senator, I'll have you know--HEY!"
"Special delivery, Comrade Nader!" shouted the waiter, then slammed
the door of Room 1409 behind him without a second glance. Bill just
stood there, stunned at this sudden turn of events. Standing before
him were two very familiar men, one in Puritan black, the other in
custom-tailored navy blue...
"Ralph?" Bill demanded. "George? What on *earth* is--"
George Stephanopoulos shook his head. "Sorry about this, Bill," he
said solemnly, "but we've been keeping tabs on you two for quite a
while."
Bill stared at him for a second, then began sputtering. "I--it--"
His face turned scarlet. "That's an INVASION OF PRIVACY!" he
bellowed.
"All for the greater good, Bill," Ralph said briskly, straightening
his tie and reaching under the hotel room bed. "There's something you
might like to know before you get into bed with the enemy...so to
speak." He raised an eyebrow. "A whole lot of things, really..."
"Enemy?!" Bill demanded angrily. "What are you *talking* about, you
paranoid socialist wooden-faced wank? He's a Democrat just like me,
and he's really forward-thinking and knows the Earth's in the balance
and
stuff! And George, what in God's name are *you* doing--"
He was abruptly silenced when he saw what Ralph Nader had retrieved
from under the bed: an armful of huge, dust-covered film reels.
Ralph blew some of the dust off the top, sending it right into Bill's
face and making him sneeze repeatedly.
"I'm madly in love with personal autonomy, Bill," Ralph continued in
an unruffled tone, handing Bill a hand-woven organic cotton
handkerchief. "Honestly, whatever floats your unioned-crew boat--but
please, *please* look at these first."
"What--" Bill sneezed. "What--" Cough, sneeze. "Is that?"
"It was smuggled out to us by a comrade in the movement," said George,
looking somber. "One working deep undercover at incredible personal
risk. It has certain...information, about Al Gore that you really
should know." His expression darkened. "That the whole *world*
should know."
Bill's eyes flickered over the reels. "Is this like that 'A Man from
Hope' thing that Clinton played at the convention?" He rolled his
eyes. "Guys, c'mon, once every four years for this kind of crap is
*more* than enough..."
Ralph and George exchanged rueful glances. Some people just *had* to
learn the hard way, didn't they?
"I'll set up the projector," said George, heading for the back of the
room.
********
As Ralph and George were reliving their fondly-recalled high school
A/V glory days, Al Gore was making a mad dash through the local
Rite-Aid, searching for that last remaining package of ribbed
reservoir-tip extra thin-n'-sensitive ready-lubed BBQ-ranch-flavored
Trojans Deluxe. Impatiently, he rifled through the gaily colored
boxes featuring earnest hand-holding couples walking into sunset after
sunset. All this trouble, just so he could get laid and add another
notch to the ol' belt and...
And then, he saw him.
There, standing by the packets of Corn Nuts and Creme Savers, was an
image of sheer grace and loveliness that took Al's breath entirely
away. He stared, and stared. His chest was tight. His eyes were
wide...
And the other man turned, and stared back.
They stood there, unable to tear their eyes away from one another.
The floor of the Rite-Aid seemed to tremble, the walls to lean in.
Somewhere, an utterly tone-deaf voice warbled madly, "Ohhhh, sweet
mystery of life, at last I've FOUND YOOOOOUUUUU...", before being
abruptly stifled by a fusillade of beer bottles hurled in its general
direction.
And slowly, very slowly, a few of the lizard scales fell like
snowflakes away from Al Gore's heart.
He found himself walking toward the other man without quite realizing
he was doing so. Face to face, now, he could see the beautiful
stranger's hands tremble a little as he clutched a small bag of
cheddar Combos.
"Nice night," offered Al, having no idea what the hell else to say.
The other man nodded, looking just as discombobulated as Al felt.
"Yes," said Senator Joe Lieberman. "It is."
Al offered his hand. Joe dropped the Combos and took it.
********
Tipper, obliging little Girl Scout that she was, had graciously lent
him the key to her swingin' Foggy Bottom love shack while she was
gallivanting around Hollywood agitating for...whatever. Joe
Lieberman, looking more than ever like a preternaturally cheerful,
besuited garden gnome, stood in the center of the living room,
nervously fiddling with the fringes of his prayer shawl.
"Great apartment," Joe said to Al, taking in the cotton candy-pink
shag carpeting, the hearts-and-cupids-covered faux Louis XIV chairs,
the dainty ruffled dotted-swiss curtains, the collection of ceramic
puppy dogs, the Elvis floor lamp and the framed crossstitched
declaration, WE AIN'T LEAVIN' 'TIL TRENT LOTT'S HEAVIN'. "You
Southerners sure know your interior decoration..."
Al didn't answer. Strolling to the kitchenette's refrigerator, he
pulled out an institutional-sized bottle of Evian, taking a long swig
before dumping half the contents over his own head and shaking it back
and forth like a St. Bernard. The hair-in-a-can carefully masking the
bald spot atop his head melted instantly, rolling in dark brown
rivulets down his face and lending him the appearance of an especially
malevolent clown.
"Uh...nice kitchen, too," Joe stammered. Al just smiled and walked
toward Joe like a panther, allure only slightly damaged when he
tripped over the kitchen wastebasket.
"Me, I don't cook much," Joe continued. "I'm always eating takeaways.
The kosher kind..." Al was getting closer. "I can't mix milk and
meat products. Like ham and cheese? Can't have ham and cheese in the
same sandwich. And pepperoni pizza, or sausage pizza, well, that's
just out of the quest--"
His tense babbling was cut off by the sheer force of Al's mouth
against his.
They staggered together toward the tiny carnation-pink bedroom,
kissing wildly. Breathing hard, Al pushed Joe back onto the
four-poster, reached into his back pocket...
At the sight of the Tom Fontana E-Z Prison Tattoo Kit (tm), Joe's eyes
widened and he sat up abruptly. "Uh...what are you doing, Al?"
Al smiled, eyes glittering like an amorous iguana's. "Just a little
fun," he murmured. "Lie back, and--"
"*Wait* a second," said Joe, sitting up even more. "Look, I'm
Orthodox, okay? No tattooing allowed, no piercing, *definitely* no
branding. Put that thing away and--OWWWW!"
Joe leapt from the bed, clutching his offended hindquarters and
staring at Al in amazement. "What is *wrong* with you, you freak?" he
demanded.
Al, too carried away by passion to be prudent, waved the lit ember
stick at his newfound prey. "Relax, baby," he purred. "It won't take
more than a half-dozen sessions to--"
"Look, did you *hear* me? I said no!" Joe shouted, now sprinting
around the bed as he tried to evade his vice-president.
Al, absolutely floored at being defied like this, lunged for him and
turned the sprint into a full-fledged chase.
"And *I* said yes! Get back here, you little tease!" he demanded,
brandishing his miniature weapon as Joe high-tailed it into the living
room. "GET BACK HERE!"
"Forget it!" Joe yelled, wielding the prayer shawl like a matador.
"I'm outta here!"
"The hell you are!" Al shouted, red-faced with fury. "I bought you
Corn Nuts--you *owe* me!"
"Screw you!" Joe shouted as he reached the apartment's front door. He
stood there for a second, staring at his would-be proprietor in amazed
disbelief. "How could you *do* this?!" he shouted. "G-d, I should
have listened to people. All the *stories* I've heard about you, you
cracker-ass perv, I should have believed them all--"
Al, holding the dying brand, was slightly taken aback. "But, but..."
Joe shook his head in pure contempt. "You know something?" he said.
"Not *only* are you an asshole, you're completely meshuggenah!"
With that, he was out the door and running down the hallway. Al stood
in the doorway in disbelief.
"Oh, yeah?" he shouted after Lieberman. "Well, SCREW you!"
"In your dreams, goyishe boy!" Joe tossed over his shoulder as he
reached the elevator. "And you know what? Your book SUCKED!"
Al, still stunned at this sudden turn of events, was rooted to the
spot, E-Z Brand now reduced to a blown-out birthday candle. He felt
righteously furious, maddeningly horny...
And strangely sad and blue.
********
Bill sat in his chair with his head between his knees, trying best he
could to ward off the impending nausea. It didn't help much. The
films he'd just had a private screening of, the smuggled-out footage
of Al Gore...the utterly perverted and perverse panoply of kinks, the
bullwhips, the carburetor shafts, the hatpins, the branding
irons...dear God, the *crunchy peanut butter...*
"You okay?" George Stephanopoulos asked, leaning over the overwhelmed
senator.
"Uh-huh," Bill managed, pulling his head up. He needed to be alone,
to process this informatio and best figure out how to go into deep
denial without looking an utter fool. Right now, though, he just
needed to lie down with his despair and impending migraine. How could
he have been *fool* enough to fall in love with such a sick fuck?
*How?*
"It's always hard to discover the truth," George offered.
"Especially--"
"Especially nothing," Ralph cut in, one hand making origami war
protesters out of the local vegetarian co-op restaurant's delivery
bags as he gazed solemnly at the senator. "The important question,
Comrade Bradley--"
"Quit *calling* me that!" Bill snapped. His eyes were filling with
tears.
"--is whether or not you understand the *importance* of joining us,"
he intoned. "Will you be there for the cause, Bill, now that you see
what we're up against? Will you pledge yourself to *ending* the reign
of the pusillanimous Republicrats once and for all? Will you join in
our crusade to BRING THEM TO THEIR KNEES?!"
"Look," Bill pleaded, "I'm a moderate at heart--"
"Peanut butter," said Ralph mercilessly. "Peanut butter. The
*crunchy* kind."
"It's not true," Bill replied, shaking his head. "It just can't be
true!"
George and Ralph exchanged glances, and sighed. "I *told* you this
was a bad idea," George offered.
Ralph, as was his wont, shook his head stubbornly. "Believe what you
want, Bill," he said, "but you either join us or look completely
stupid."
Bill thought that one over for a while. His temples were throbbing.
His heart was racing. His mind *and* his heart were torn, between
love, the love that pulsed through every cell of his body, and the
evidence before him, the incontrovertible evidence of...
"Okay," he heard himself say, his voice resigned. "I'll do it."
George jumped up and down with excitement. Ralph, not one given to
wild outbursts of emotion--or any emotion, really--offered a grimace
that might have passed for a smile.
"Welcome aboard, comrade," he declared. "Now, go recycle those soda
cans."
********
Al wandered the streets of Washington, disconsolate and desolate.
Lieberman had vanished as a ship passing in the night, and he was
alone, so very *very* alone...
Oh, shit. Bill--he'd totally forgotten. Hey, at least *somebody*
would fuck him tonight, it wouldn't be a total loss...
He turned in the direction of K Street, then shook his head a little
and turned back again.
No. He knew what he wanted now. Call it fate, call it what you
would, but that chance drugstore meeting had changed everything...for
good., He *had* to have Joe Lieberman, and nobody else. Ever. And
he had to have him...as a colleague. As an *equal.* Joe had to come
to him, not be dragged by the hair. It had to be *his* choice.
But how, after tonight's disaster, would Al possibly get him to do
that? How? How?
"Hooooooow?!" he shouted at the moon.
A passing wino rolled his eyes, and quickly crossed the street.
********
Deep in the heart of Texas (clap, clap), in a fabulously luxurious and
top-secret right-wing compound, an enormous pulsating brain on a
raised spotlight dais woke from the deep sleep of many long hours. It
started a little, stirred--the huge quivering gray-jelly mass
twitching with the effort--and sent a thick fog of roiling, pea-soupy
thought waves in the direction of the caretaker who sat dozing by its
side. As the feeling hit him, the man woke up with a start, then
began to listen. And nod. And listen some more.
Crossing the room, he pressed a button on the opposite wall.
Instantly, dozens upon dozens of the most reactionary minds in America
spilled into the room, gazing with reverence and terror upon the
reanimated gray matter of their most beloved patriarch.
"What did he say?" James Dobson demanded, elbowing Jerry Falwell aside
as he stared upon the Oracle. "What did he *say?!*"
"Zee time iss now for zee big action," announced Henry Kissinger,
caretaker and interpreter emeritus of the Oracle. "Unkel Ronnie's
Laffing Gas (tm) shall be released in mass quantities starting
tomorrow, at noon. Mein Fuhrer, I can valk!"
"*Excellent,*" Falwell beamed, as Dubya girly-squealed in pure
delight. "Y'all hear that? Sit back and enjoy the show, boys, this
election's in our back pockets!"
Kissinger smiled solemnly along with the other men, contemplating this
turn of events. He hoped the film of Al Gore he'd smuggled out to his
comrades in the resistance had gotten through; he hoped with equal
fervor that the tapes he was now making of the right wing's most
powerful and hideous secret would find their way into the proper
hands. But he had only to do his job, and let those on the outside
take care of the rest. Thirty-some years as a deep undercover agent
for America's most progressive and radical political movements had
taught him the value of patience. Of waiting.
But he'd never, *ever* get used to the giant, creepy-ass, steaming,
oozing pile of ossified muck that was the Great Communicator's brain.
Stepping as far away from the thing as he dared, Kissinger adjusted
his horn-rims and nodded.
"Ja," he agreed, "it iss showtime."
***
This is it, so far. This was the last part written before the election.