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From: Christine W Indigo <christineindigo@juno.com>
Subject: {ASSM} US Presidental Election 2000: That's The Ticket! Part 2 (MM, hum, scfi, slash)
Date: Fri, 3 Nov 2000 01:10:06 -0500
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That's the Ticket! Part 2: The Plot Thickens (MM, hum, scfi, 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.
********
"I know I shouldn't be here," Bradley ventured awkwardly, "but..."
The other man waved a casual hand at him. "I understand, Bill. Really I
do. Fresh maple syrup?"
Without waiting for an answer, former New Hampshire senator turned
acid-penned memoirist Warren Rudman picked up the pitcher and poured his
guest a small shot glass of the sweet stuff. Fresh off the trees in
beautiful neighboring Vermont, flown in every morning...his only vice,
that and increasingly Byzantine schemes to cut the fiendish national
deficit. Sipping from his own glass, he patiently waited for Bradley to
finish his train of thought.
The other man rubbed his forehead fretfully, then finally shook his head.
"I...I love him, Warren," he said, in as close to an actual emotional
outburst as he could ever possibly manage. "I really do. What the hell am
I gonna do?"
Rudman considered this thoughtfully. In his many years on the Hill, his
own long and blissfully happy love-match had as good as drafted him into
the position of agony uncle, doing his level best to advise and
conciliate during the regular outbursts of secret passion, bitter
breakups and very public schemes of vengeance that engulfed his fellow
politicos. It was being dragged into the middle of that whole Newt
Gingrich-Jim Wright debacle that had finally done him in (my God, maybe
it was just New England prudery but if he'd been Jim, discovering what
that specially modified showerhead was really used for would've been
more than enough, never mind that whole misadventure with the duck and
the choir organist).
Bill, though--Bill had always been such a closed book. So quiet. So
circumspect...hell, so wooden. Who'd ever have dreamed, staring at those
immobile aging features, that the guy would have been capable of such
obvious and utterly hopeless passion?
"I'm here for ya, Bill," he finally offered. "Really."
"What am I gonna do? "
Warren set his syrup glass down with a thud. "You know what you gotta
do, Bill," he replied firmly. "You gonna just sit there and pine away
like some schoolgirl? You gotta tell him. Okay? I mean, look at me. Do
you think I'd have the love I have now if I hadn't mustered my courage
and spoken up? And I was head over heels for a Supreme Court justice, for
God's sake, not just some crummy presidential candidate--"
"But I can't," Bill protested, idly tossing crumpled balls of paper into
a nearby wastebasket (two points, four points--foul). "I just can't."
"You have to, Bill." Warren gulped down the rest of his Vermont-fresh
syrup, jabbing a finger at the air between him and Bradley. "Just tell
him. Okay? Tell him that you're never gonna leave him. Tell him that
you're always gonna love him. Tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him
right now."
There was a long silence. Finally, Bill nodded and rose from his chair.
"I'm sorry to bother you--"
"It's no bother, Bill. Hey, listen, I've got a fantastic new plan to
lower the adjusted interest rate on the third-quarter federal deficit by
two-point-six percent, if you wanna hang around and look at the papers I
can--"
"No!" Bradley said hastily. "I mean, uh...I've got things to...do. Wrap
up, you know."
"Understood," said the other man, unruffled. "Tell Ernestine I said
hello."
"I will," Bradley said. "And you tell David the same."
********
In a palatial estate located somewhere near the sewage-choked Rio Grande,
George "Dubya" Bush sat huddled with his advisors, frowning as he read
through a memo. Long minutes passed.
"Okay," he finally said, squinting at the paper. "So what this means is,
because I got more primary votes than McCain...I'm more popular than he
is, and so I won that Caucasian thingy--"
"Caucus, sir," a campaign worker interjected. "Not Caucasian."
"Whatever," said Dubya impatiently. "I'm on top, right?"
"Uh, right."
"YEEEEEE- HAH! " Dubya screeched, leaping from his chair and giving the
room a few triumphant rock-'n'-roll pelvic thrusts. "This is better than
when we done executed that seventy-six-year-old great-grandma who turned
out to be innocent after all, WHEEEEEEE-HOOO!!!" Swiveling his hips madly
for several more seconds--causing the entire room to collectively avert
their eyes--he finally sat back down again. "So I'm president now,
right?" he demanded.
"No, sir, that's not until November. But don't worry. All you need to do
is stick to your message--lower taxes, better schools, some of my best
friends are Catholics and kill the queers. It's a done deal."
Dubya nodded, a smirk of pure satisfaction engulfing his entire face.
"But we're not gonna actually kill the queers, right?" he demanded. "I
mean, I gotta keep floggin' that compassionate conservative thing--"
"You say whatever I want you to say, boy," said a new voice from the
corner of the room. "And you do whatever I want you to do--you got it?"
"Yessir, Mr. Robertson," Dubya said hastily, wincing a little as the
smell of sulphur hit his nostrils. "Whatever you say. Consider your clean
upstanding Christian ass kissed again--hell, I don't mind! I can't stand
them there homey-sensuals, no sirree bob! I tell ya--"
"Sir?" the campaign worker intervened. "The cameras aren't on. You don't
have to act down-home right now."
Dubya looked around him, and realized that in fact there were no lenses
in his face. "Oh, well then," he murmured, sipping his Courvoisier, "what
ho, old chum. Tosh and bother. So what about that old rotter, Al Gore?
Not a Skull and Bones man, I don't know why he's leading in the
polls--"
"The Jewish media is warping the minds of the unsuspecting public," Pat
Robertson shrugged. "The Anti-Christ is seeping from their miserable
unsaved pores--hey, have you seen my copy of the Handmaid's Tale?"
"We're Xeroxing it for the national convention," said the campaign
worker. "Lotta good stuff in there for the platform. Don't worry about
the media, Mr. Bush. Or about Al Gore. We've got...some very important
information about him."
The campaign worker stared out the window, watching the procession of
child migrant workers trooping exhaustedly toward the nearby lettuce
fields; the sight never failed to fill any of the gathered men with a
deep, profound joy. "Information," he repeated.
********
Al was feeling good, he was feeling on top of the world. He had said
world by a string and the Democratic nomination by the balls, and that
little session with Mr. War Hero had been damned refreshing...he was
halfway to an actual facial expression as he approached the Oval Office,
rapping his knuckles on the heavy oaken door. "Come in," drawled a
familiar voice inside.
Al strolled through the door, giving his boss a little two-fingered
salute. Bill sat behind his enormous desk, finishing the third of his
three morning Big Macs; he nodded briskly at his vice president. "You
wanted to see me, sir?" Gore queried.
Clinton nodded, wiping the ketchup from his mouth as the intern crouching
between his knees made a hasty exit from the room. "There's something
very important I need to discuss with you," he said when the door had
closed. "It's...well, it's not really about your campaign, but..."
Gore folded his hands in his lap, waiting for the prize that was sure to
come his way. He'd whipped Mr. Rhodes Scholar Basketball's sorry ass in
eighteen out of eighteen states, surely...he frowned a little as his
boss hesitated, shook his head and began rubbing fretfully at the back of
his neck.
"Cramp?" Al rose from his chair, heading toward his boss with a wicked
little smile. "You know I know just how to work those kinks out, baby--"
Clinton held up a hand. "Al? No--not today. It's...you need to sit down
to hear this." Al took his seat again, now truly puzzled. Bill let out a
Big Mac belch, then folded his hands in front of him.
"Okay, it's like this," the president said. "Al...we're through."
For a moment, Al wasn't sure he'd heard this correctly. "What did you
say?"
"You heard me, Al. You and I...we just can't see each other anymore.
Okay? The Lincoln Bedroom's off-limits now. Sorry."
It took a few moments for comprehension to hit. "It's her, isn't it?"
Gore finally snarled. "It's that bitch Hillary, she--"
"Oh, for God's sake, Al," Bill said, eyes rolling. "Now you're startin'
to sound like Trent Lott or something--trust me, she's way too busy with
Monica and Tipper to worry about what I do in my spare time. I'm tellin'
you this because it's my decision. You and I...the magic's gone, Al. I
mean, I'll support your campaign and all that, but I think from now on we
should just be friends."
"Friends." Al pressed his hands to his temples for a second. "But why? "
he finally demanded.
Bill shrugged. "Well, hell, Al, what can I say? You just don't race my
motor anymore. Sad but true--"
"But you said you loved me!" Al demanded, his voice rising like a
distressed child's. "You said we were soul mates, you--you promised! "
"Yeah, I did--to get you into bed with me." Another shrug. "Ain't like
I've never done that before, Al--I mean, you had fair warning. Besides,
we've got an old saying in the backwoods--you can hump a three-legged
heifer, but that don't mean you gotta buy it grits and hominy the next
mornin'. We're through. That's it. I mean...I hope you understand, Al,
it's nothing personal."
Al's head was spinning. He was not hearing what he just-- "I gotta go,"
Gore said, rising unsteadily from his chair.
"I understand," said Bill. "Hey, Al?"
Gore was already at the Oval Office door. "Yeah?" he said weakly.
"If it's any consolation to you, nobody else's tongue has ever given
Little Billy the workout you have. I mean, you could give fuckin'
lessons in--"
"Mr. President, I really have to go now." Gore was out the door, almost
running down the White House hallway.
********
Bradley sat on a park bench in front of the White House (wasn't any law
saying he couldn't look at it, okay, it was still a free country),
contemplating what Warren Rudman had said. Tell him. Just tell him...but
how? When? And should he call, or send a card, or...? He shook his head
a little. It was all so confusing! Dating Ernestine hadn't been half so
difficult, if only because of her insistence on speaking in her native
tongue at all times...all he'd ever been able to figure out was "ja,"
"nein" "Luftwaffe" and "Colonel Klink." He sighed, staring at the
presidential mansion.
There was a sudden flurry of movement next to him; distracted as he was,
Bradley didn't turn his head. Someone almost threw themselves onto the
bench beside him, the harsh sighing and snuffling of their breath
indicating some sort of deep distress. Showing a not entirely artful
compassion, Bradley turned toward his benchmate. Perhaps, after they'd
confided their troubles in him and been soothed by his wise, well-chosen
words, he could finally explain to them --just for his own sake--why his
health-care plan had been the best and...
Oh, God. Every muscle in his far-side-of-fifty body froze.
A man perhaps a few years younger than himself, clad in a black overcoat,
his thick dark hair framing insouciant and boyish features--well, they
might have been insouciant if not for the puffy redness of the eyes, the
sniffling of the nose. Studying Bradley's face, Al Gore hastily put away
the starched handkerchief with which he had been daubing his eyes. His
expression turned from a mope to a sneer.
"So, Bradley," he almost snarled. "We meet again. Loser. "
TO BE CONTINUED...?
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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