Tuesday, January 08, 2008
By Bryan M.
When Max spoke, people listened. The problem was, he was behind in the polls by 13 points and now he watched his lead plummet like mercury in a New England winter.
His left foot took the last step before he'd be at his podium. The sea swelled. Arms and flags and signs with his name undulated in a powerful heave all around him. Red, white, blue sparks danced around him. They were good, he thought, to stick with me to the end. But a wounded animal knows when it's licked. Would Max play dead and hope his predator had mercy? He had a chance to go out graciously, to tell the masses of New Hampshire voters to back Barack or huzzah Hillary.
No, the instincts told him otherwise. Go out swinging, his conscience said. Take 'em all down. Make them believe you were their last, great ... white ... hope. Make them regret their doubts. Make them guilty for being suckered in by slick ads and shiny propoganda. Make them second-guess, don't make yourself the second choice.
Max raised his arms. The crowd hushed. His eyes lowered.
They waited for a speech that never came.
He raised his arms because his suit was stifling, and he needed his arms free. The crowd hushed - it saw something in him it hadn't seen before, and for the first time their confidence wavered. His eyes lowered to take one last look at the speech he'd never give, and to make sure the podium wasn't bolted to the floor.
In one motion he lifted his leg and sent the wood podium flying. His hands went to his waist, and fluidly his belt was off. Before the heavy box crashed to the convention floor, flattening a widow in the process, his back was turned. His pants were down.
And the last thing they'd remember was Max. The great white hope.
And his butt.