The following December 14, 2015, piece by Brian Brady is being reposted, because it’s even more important now than it was then.
A work of fiction by Brian Brady
“To you, Sugah. The next President of the United States.” The former President was always lavish when praising his wife. They were both lawyers but completely different. He loved to be in front of a crowd. She was more comfortable in the private meeting of a sub-committee’s sub committee. She was driven by envy while he was driven by vanity. He took what he wanted but she had to tear everyone down, and be the last person standing, to claim the title of emperor.
“I have a praablem.” Her phony Southern accent gave way to her native dialect after she had a few drinks.
They were drinking wine in the living room of their New York penthouse. The former President’s bad boy charm and his bride’s Machiavellian ruthlessness made them the power couple of American politics. It was a marriage of convenience. Watching them was like observing two alpha wolves, jockeying for dominance of the pack.
“Sugah, you was gonna be President, the day my term was up, but…”
“…you misplaced your willy, I know. I know. This brings us to my problem … and if it’s MY problem, it’s YOUR problem, too. Remember, I know where all the bodies are buried.” She guffawed. She had an ugly laugh, a laugh which she tried to force on camera but each time she did, she sounded like a sick sea lion. “That man really screwed up in Africa and I had to jump on the grenade to save his ass. The praablem is … I don’t think we cleaned all of the evidence from the home computer.”
“You and that damned e-mail. I told you that e stands for evidence, Sugah.” He backed off the wine. She sounded worried and when she was worried, her propensity to destroy rose. He cleared his head and tried to think clearly. “Sugah, I’m sure the media won’t find out.”
“They have already.”
Boom.
“What? Who?”
“The Times.”
“Sugah, we OWN the damned ol’ Times. Which one of them is stupid enough to ruin yo’ chances? No Times reportuh…” The former President sobered up and corrected his pronunciation. “No Times reporter is going to help elect a Republican. You’re way too worried.”
“I was warned not to run. An anonymous email came in, telling me they would run with the story if I announced.”
Now he was worried. He had his time in the sun and he knew she loved to destroy…destroy reputations…destroy careers…destroy people, if necessary. If she didn’t win the Presidency this time, she would ruin his legacy. She could end up in jail and she wouldn’t go down alone.
“Let’s sleep on it, Sugah. I got more tricks up my sleeve, but I wanna get some friends in the room when I tell you my idea.” With that, he grabbed her hand, and led her to her bedroom. He tucked her in her bed, then repaired to his room to think about what he could do.
The next morning, the hopeful President awoke to men’s voices in her penthouse living room. She rolled over and saw it was 6:30 a.m. She grabbed her robe and walked out to see her husband speaking to two men. Her husband was wearing a purple track suit, a “high rollers” gift from a casino. One guest was wearing a suit while the other, an obese man, was wearing a navy blue windbreaker with a yellow-outlined, upside-down triangle on it. The three men looked like they had been talking for hours.
“Good Morning, gentlemen. Did you even sleep, Bubba?” Her eyes focused as the men all stood up.
“Ma’am,” said the fat man.
“Did you lose weight, Doll? I gotta tell you, you look really, REALLY amazing,” said the man in the suit.
She laughed at the man in the suit’s comment — the sounds of sea lions came out her mouth. She didn’t trust the fat man, a politician from across the river. She attended the man in the suit’s wedding but she loathed him. He thought that he could buy everything he saw and he usually did, but with “OPM” (other people’s money). He was on his fifth wife, a woman not too much older than her daughter.
“Run back inside and change, Sugah. These fellas came here to talk some bidness, not to make a social call.” As she walked back to her bedroom, she noticed that the ever present Secret Service agents were out on the terrace. She listened carefully as she changed into her brightest pant suit.
“I hate them. I really, really freakin’ hate them.” She heard the voice of the fat man. “Those freaking tea party people blamed me for that man’s re-election. They posted photo-shopped pictures on Facebook, of me and him making out on an Atlantic City beach.”
“Calm down now. What was you gonna do? You were trying to save your state from the fallout of climate change. You HAD to work with that man.” The former President loved his in-your-face attitude. His wife mistrusted the fat man but he knew she needed his help.
“You showed tremendous energy … tre-MEN-dous energy that week,” said the man in the suit. Had the fat man not declared Atlantic City a disaster zone, the insurance companies wouldn’t rebuild his casino. “Leadership can be lonely but whattayagonna do? We were at war and my property was a casualty of war. Tremendous energy.”
“Now just set right down an’ let’s recap our action plan, fellas. I’m going back to the White House and y’all are gonna save the Republican Party next year.” He turned to the man in the suit and said, “and YOU? You will get the best damned reality show ever.”
She heard the voices murmur as she put on her make up. Every now and then, she could make out one of them say something decipherable — the fat man would say, “I hate those freaking tea party people,” the man in the suit would ask things like, “Wait…I’m AGAINST abortion, now?” or say things like, “I could say that. I’m very, very popular with people.” She couldn’t make out the gist of the scheme but she knew her husband was protecting her. She checked her make up and walked into the living room. On cue, all three men stood up again.
“Thank you Mr President,” said the fat man. He nodded to her and turned his gigantic mass away from her. The last thing she remembered of him was that yellow-outlined, upside-down triangle, bouncing up and down as he waddled out of her front door.
“Just what have you boys concocted?” Her husband and the man in the suit were sitting down now.
“Sugah, you are gonna be the next President and these two fellas are gonna run against you.”
“How is thaat going to help?” (Her midwestern accent came out when she got nervous.)
“Follow me Sugah. That big fella hates those tea party people so he’d like nuthin’ better than to run them outta the GOP. He’s gonna run in eight years anyway so he has to purge conservatives from the nominating process. This man here is gonna do just that.”
“This really is a yuge idea, Doll,” said the man in the suit, his trademark scowl on his face.
“..but what about that, um…thing?” she asked.
“The Times thing? Oh, don’t you worry about that, Sugah. It’s all about the news cycle. Here’s what’s gonna happen. Each time some evidence comes out and the Times writes about it, he’s gonna say something SO outrageous that the media are gonna focus all of their attention on HIM. Ain’t nobody gonna be talking about you and the Africa thing or your damned e-mails.”
“I’m not so sure about this.”
“Listen to me, Doll,” said the man in the suit. “I am going to say something so … so TOTALLY outrageous that nobody will care about what you did in the Africa thing. Let me give you an example — you know I care about immigration, right?”
“Sure, but…”
“Get this, Doll. When I announce, and I will have a formal announcement the very FIRST time the media are ready to pounce on one of those emails, I will say that we are going to build a 100-foot wall along the southern border. Now you KNOW I could do that, if other people paid for it, right?” He was actually getting excited about this as he spoke. “Follow me, Doll. I tell the American people that MEX-I-CO is gonna pay for the wall.”
“That’s insane.”
He smirked. “Not really if you think about it. Look, I am the GREATEST negotiator in the world; people really, REALLY like me. I can sell the idea of a 100-foot wall, paid by the Mexican government, to the American people. I tell them that it’s a very, very good idea because we are at war.”
The former President was cackling at this point; his face was turning red as he laughed. “Hoo Sugah, can you see it now? Those low information voters will play right along and jump on his bandwagon. The media will have a field day and nobody will remember your silly ol’ email.” He was starting to cough from all of the laughing. He turned to his guest and said, “Now tell her your slogan.”
“Let’s all be WIN-ners again.”
“Oh brother.” She rolled her eyes.
“Seriously, Doll. Check this out. I say that America has become a bunch of whiny LOSE-ers, I might take a shot or two at you along the way but I stick with the idea that Americans BECAME a bunch of losers because of political correctness. I proclaim that I’m a WIN-ner, not a LOSE-er and that every American can be a winner too. Let’s… all… be… winners… again.”
“I’m getting nervous.”
“Calm down, Sugah. It gets better. The big fella is calling his buddy out west, the war hero. He hates the tea party too.”
“He is a TO-TAL loser” scowled the man in the suit.
“Who?” she asked.
“That guy out west, Doll. Look, he got caught; that makes him a loser. I like the winners; the guys that didn’t get caught.”
“Oh my God, I think you’re serious.”
“He IS, Sugah!!! That’s why this is so great.” The former President was coughing hysterically now, tears running down his face from laughing.
“Sir, he was my colleague and he is an American hero.”
“He is a loser.” The man in the suit scowled.
The former President was up dancing around the room now. He was fist-pumping like some college kid on Spring Break. “LOSER!” he shouted then broke down into a coughing fit. Between wheezes he said,”Tell her about your war on terror plan.”
“Expel all of the Muslims from America.”
“That’s un— that’s uncon—”
“Grave times, Doll. FDR did it. FDR was a winner.” The scowl turned into a smirk.
“He’s just getting goin’, Sugah. The best part is, he’s actually gonna save the two-party system in this country.”
“How is this supposed to SAVE the Republican Party?”
“Think about it, Sugah. Our friends there are having problems. We had a good thing goin’ with the old boys and their ‘Pact With the US’. They reformed entitlements and I taught them that you can actually grow gubmint by introducing ‘market-based ideas’ to it. The tea party people ruined all of that.”
“Those tea party people were never really winners,” smirked the man in the suit.
“Oh will you two just STOP?!? I’m no fan of those tea party people, but dissent is the highest form of patriotism. I’ll remind you both that most of those people are just worried about the rate of federal spending. One could even see their cause as honorable and you want to ruin them.”
“Losers.” The smirk turned back into a scowl.
The former President was dancing like a leprechaun at this point. “Let’s all be winners again! Let’s all be winners again! Let’s all be winners again.” He was as giddy as the first time he cheated on his wife.
“I wont be a party to this madness,” she said. A silence came over the room. Her husband stopped dancing and the man in the suit’s jaw dropped. The former President took a deep breath, stood up straight, and did his best to look Presidential in his purple track suit.
“Sit DOWN, Sugah! You are a spoiled little girl and I blame yo’ daddy for that. Bubba gonna tell you how this goes down.” She shrunk into the easy chair. When her husband played daddy, she got misty-eyed and compliant. She hated him but she loved him. He was a real craphead but he could be commanding when he wanted to be. She had to remember that this was the man who almost started World War Three to get his name off the front pages. He was every bit as calculating as she could ever be.
“Here’s the script, Sugah.” The former President turned to the man in the suit and asked, “When the first email comes out, what do you do?”
“I announce that I’m running for President, to build a wall to keep the rapists and druggies away.”
“Perfect. When the second email comes out?”
“I call that guy out west a loser which, by the way, he is.”
“Whatever. And the third email?”
“Ban all of the Muslims from America.”
“Good boy! Just like FDR. When the next email comes out?”
“I call China a bunch of cheaters and blame Americans for losing to them.”
“Nobody likes the Chinese anyway. Now, when we need the big knockout punch, what will you do?”
“Leave the GOP and announce that I’m running as an independent.”
A diabolical smile formed on her face. “Oh Bubba, just like YOUR election. This is all starting to make sense now.”
She stood up, brushed the lint from her pant suit, and imagined her living room was the Oval Office. She no longer felt that she was among a bunch of schemers. She imagined herself chatting with statesmen and making important decisions, decisions that would affect every human being on the planet. As her mind took her to Washington, a dreadful thought pierced her brain. She turned to the man in the suit and asked, “Wait a minute! What’s in it for you?”
He replied, “Ratings, Doll. Ratings.”
She rolled her eyes. “I should have known all along.”
Their guest stood up, thanked the former President, stared directly into the hopeful President’s eyes, and said, “You never know. I might just beat you.”
“You’re delusional.”
“No, Doll. I’m a WIN-NER”.