Message-ID: <27299asstr$973663803@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <20001106.211535.-299905.5.christineindigo@juno.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Juno-Att: 0 X-Juno-RefParts: 0 From: Christine W Indigo <christineindigo@juno.com> Subject: {ASSM} US Presidental Election 2000: That's The Ticket! Part 4 (MM, hum, scfi, caution, slash) Date: Wed, 8 Nov 2000 01:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/27299> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: RuiJorge, newsman, gill-bates That's the Ticket! Part 4: 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. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> | | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+