🚀 go-pugleaf

     "He can't do that!"
     James Feldspar was livid, and the fact that the next
words spoken were "he just did." did not seem to ease this
lividity one bit.  Had the `he' in question, actually been
in the room at the time, Feldspar would likely have
attempted to strangle him.
     "Well," a committee member began, "at least we have a
candidate on the..." he trailed off under pressure from
Feldspar's withering gaze.
     "Jim, just sitting around getting angry isn't going to
help things at all," said another member.  "If we're going
to do something let's do it.  Can't we get his name taken
off the ballot?"
     Feldspar exploded at the man.  "Don't you think I've
tried that?  Once the ballot is set there's no way in Hell
(TM) to get it changed, even if the candidate dies!  Believe
me, I've considered that option!"
     "So what do we do?"
     "I don't know."
     "Er..." the committee member whom Feldspar had withered
at a few moments before meekly raised his hand.
     "What is it?" the chairman growled at him.
     "Well, er... Jim, we could um... always... er, start
a... um... a write-in campaign."
     "He's right," another member added.  "It's perfectly
legal.  We'll just have to work a little harder to make sure
people know who our candidate is and how to vote for him."
     "Er... yeah," said the member who had proposed the
idea, perking up at this sign of support."
     Feldspar looked a little happier, but not so much that
he wouldn't still gleefully murder anyone who got in his
way.
     "A-anybody opposed to Jim as the candidate?" yet
another member spoke up quakingly.
     The response was just a series of slight shudders,
which all concerned took as an affirmative.

                The Bob City Chronicles, Episode 27:

                Vote Early and Vote Often, Part Three:

                "The Words of the Prophets are Written on the Subway Walls"

                by Ben Brown

     All the city is now abuzz with talk of the election.
As the time grows near, candidates and their campaign staffs
are under increased scrutiny from the press, and everybody
has an opinion.  In some cases the opinions are positive.
In others negative.  Still in others, rather non-committal.
This pretty much sums up all of the options.  Still, it's
sometimes difficult to know what someone thinks of a
candidate or someone who works for one, even if the
candidate or campaign staffer in question is a close friend
or even a relative.

     With this in mind,  let us look in on the spacious
Winchester Heights home of toothpaste magnate S.L.
Swingleman, Sr. to see exactly  what he thinks of this:

     Swingleman sat at the end of a small breakfast table
thumbing through the metro section of the Bob City Times-
Herald.  Before him lay a plate still sticky with raspberry
syrup but not bereft of any sign of the waffles that had
been there.  Swingleman perused the page a few more times,
then quietly folded his paper, set it down beside the plate,
and turned to his wife, who was sitting at the other end of
the table taking her daily vitamins.
     "Miriam," he announced in a clear, confident voice.
"Our son is an idiot."
---------------

     "Are you sure this is legal?"
     "What're they going to do, Leon, throw him in jail?"
     "Hmm.  You have a point."
     "Is the microphone ready, Alvin?"
     "Y-yeah."
     "Zonglar, you ready?"
     "Yes ma'am!"
     "Okay... roll tape!"

A cheery photo of a well-known supervillain appears on the
screen.

Then the voiceover starts:    "This is Professor
Destruction.  He's running for mayor.  If he is not elected
mayor, here's what might happen."

Stock footage of the rather fiery demolition of a public
building.  Then the voiceover continues, along with a
caption under a smaller photo of the candidate:  "Vote for
Professor Destruction... or else."

And the obligatory small print.

"Paid for by Destruction for Mayor, E. Zonglar, treasurer"
---------------

     "I'm going to miss you, Elaine."
     "I'll miss you too, sir."
     "I wish you could see it through to the end of
December."
     "I just don't think I could take seeing you move out of
here.  I've gotten a very good offer."
     "I'm not surprised.  You're worth it.  Sometimes I
think you run this city rather than me."
     Elaine Dershowitz blushed slightly.
     "So when do you leave?"
     "November 6th.  My flight leaves early in the morning.
It's been very nice working with you, sir."
     "Hey, you're not gone yet.  But thanks."
     Elaine Dershowitz left the office early that evening.
The mayoral elections had always been stressful times, but
there had always been an inevitability about them, and a
knowledge that for whatever reason--some called it
corruption, but Elaine liked to think it was simply because
Karst was a good leader--her job would be safe.  There were
no guarantees now, and even if she kept the job, it just
wouldn't be the same.
     She descended into the subway station.  It wasn't very
crowded at this time of day--just some early commuters, a
few shoppers headed home to Winchester Heights, and some
random derelicts.  Nothing out of the usual, except, of
course, the inescapable signs of the mayoral campaign, to
wit, posters.  They were everywhere, on both sides of the
platform, covering all the pillars,  plastering the windows
of the subway cars, stuck everywhere you'd think possible,
and a few places that you wouldn't.
     As Elaine waited for her train, she glanced casually at
a few in a rather forced segue, but hey, I'm kind of writing
this to a deadline and can't make it absolutely seamless.

     Anyway, the posters:

     The first showed an enthusiastically smiling two-bit
hood in a cheap suit, and read:





                   Vote for Mickey "The Squid" Vitello


                       Your friend in "the Family".


     Followed by the obligatory fine print:


            Paid for by Squid for Mayor, H. Coselli, treasurer



     And the second was like unto it, showing a rather pale
gentleman with a vacant expression, and reading:




                         "Lucky" Louie McScum:


                           A stiff candidate

                            for stiff times


     With the small print stating that the poster was


              Paid for by Elect-a-Corpse, A. Bertikov, treasurer



     The third poster surprised her somewhat.  The name was
familiar, but the candidacy was a surprise. It was a stiff,
formal poster, as traditional as any in this election:




                        Write in James Feldspar


                       A REAL Democrat for mayor.



     Elaine had met Feldspar at numerous political
functions.  He'd struck her as an abrasive, mean-spirited
sort.  Not the type she'd want to have as mayor, and one
that she'd be happy she was getting out of the city if he
was elected.  At any rate, she could think of dozens of
people who she'd write in on the ballot before Jim Feldspar.

     The fourth poster along the wall was a bit more
involved.  After the standard picture of the candidate and
large splashy slogan:




                          Vote for Mr. Safety!


     there came, as usual, small print, to whit:


       Copyright (c) 1995  Mr. Safety for Mayor, Inc. "Vote for Mr.
       Safety" is a  registered  trademark owned by  Mr. Safety for
       Mayor, Inc. Mr. Safety for  Mayor, Inc. is a registered not-
       for-profit  corporation.  No  animals  were  harmed  in  the
       production  of  this  poster.  This  poster  contains  trace
       amounts of  dioxin,  a known  carcinogen, and  should not be
       ingested. Please contact the  Bob City Poison Control Center
       in case of accidental  ingestion, at  555-5312.  This poster
       should not  be used  as a  structural element  in buildings,
       having a tensile and shear strength below state and federal
       standards. Do not fold, spindle,  or mutilate. This document
       contains fifty percent post-consumer recycled material. This
       poster is biodegradable: do not  place in landfill. Contains
       no FDC Red Dye #5, a known carcinogen.  Warning: Significant
       eyestrain  hazard exists.  Do  not stare  at fine  print for
       extended periods, or under  inadequate lighting  conditions.
       Compliant with ISO 9000 standards.  Not intended  for use as
       an oral contraceptive.  Keep out of reach  of children. This
       poster is  the property of  Mr. Safety for  Mayor, Inc.  Any
       reprint or  other reuse of this  poster without  the express
       written consent of Mr. Safety and Mr. Safety for Mayor, Inc.
       is expressly prohibited.  Dispose of in a  low-level nuclear
       waste  site (exposure to:  high  energy  photons,  microwave
       radiation, environmental  radiation.)  This poster copyright
       Mr. Safety for Mayor, Inc.  for purposes of copyright in the
       United Kingdom.  Paid for by  Mr. Safety for Mayor, Inc., W.
       Smith,  treasurer.  Please  remain at least  thirty-six (36)
       inches away from this poster at all times.



     Elaine Dershowitz shuddered slightly at this last
poster, and shuffled through the crowd into the waiting
subway train.  The train lurched roughly out of the station,
and into the darkness of the tunnel.  Had she been able to
see out of the windows, Elaine might have noticed another
poster--this one placed not in the brightly lit station, but
rather in the middle of the tunnels, where the warren-like
maintenance and sewer pipes intersected with the larger rail
passageway.  It read:



                           Vote for Roy Kettle.


                        He wants to be mayor, okay?

---------------

     The crowd cheered.
     Diego stepped proudly up the steps to the podium, still
amazed at the events of the past few months.  Why he of all
people should have crowds cheering for him was very
confusing.  At his childhood home in Mexico, it was all the
bigshots from old wealthy families that were cheered for.
Even in America, he'd never thought that he'd ever be
cheered.  He was just a simple man, after all.
     "My friends!" he began.  He started all of his speeches
this way, and indeed, he felt it was true, that all of those
who came out to support him were in some way his friends,
and that he was a friend to them.
     "My friends," he said again, as the crowd began to
settle.  "I thank you all for coming out here tonight.  I
feel that with friends like you, I can be a good mayor, good
for not only you, but for everyone in this city.  Seeing you
here tonight, I am so filled with joy that I can barely
think past tonight.  But I must.  I must tell you of my
plans.  You see..." he paused here.  The pause was fateful,
for in the brief silence that follows, he heard a few words
that drifted through the still air, and fell harshly,
painfully on his ears.  He heard the gentleman of the club
where he had worked, the gentleman who had become his
campaign manager, the gentleman who had plucked him from
obscurity, say to a swarthy man in an ill fitting suit,
"Don't worry about him.  He has no idea what's really going
on. He'll do anything we say."
     And who knows what it was--a curious construction flaw
turned into a perfect acoustic transmitter--a sudden and
random silence with the words floating across the dead air--
or perhaps the capricious act of a jesting god. At any rate,
Diego heard it.  And they were right.  He had no idea what
was going on--up to that point.
     But in that moment--with those few words, it all
became clear to him:  why he had been picked, why him, of
all people--why the woman at the registrar's office had
looked at him so strangely--what the gentlemen of the club
had been talking about while he was making his speeches.  It
was all too clear, and all too horrifying.  He was a stooge,
a tool, a mere pawn in their games.  He wouldn't really be
mayor, just a figurehead.
     Diego Enrique Ximenez-Martinez had not toiled long
hours for this.  This wasn't what he had come to America as
a small child for.  This wasn't what he'd become a citizen
for.  This was wrong, and he, right there, was the only one
who could stop it.
     He turned to the roaring crowd at the campaign rally,
all arrayed below the platform, banners, hats, tee-shirts,
all proclaiming his name.  Above the roar of the crowd, he
began not the speech the gentlemen of the club had prepared
for him, but for the first time his own words:
     "You see," he said, desperately trying to start up
where he left off, "I do not want to be mayor!  Do not vote
for me for mayor!"
     He could not understand why the cheers only grew
louder.


IN PLACE OF TEASER QUESTIONS THIS EVENING, WE PRESENT THE OFFICIAL
MAYORAL BALLOT FOR THE NOVEMBER 5 ELECTION IN BOB CITY.

SUPERGUY:  Wake up, America!

***************************************

Official Ballot
General Election
November 5, 1996
Bob River County and Bob City

-------------------
Mayor:

Gerald R. "Professor" Destruction  [Independent]

Michael Till [Democrat]

Michael "Mickey the Squid" Vitello [The Family]

"Mister Safety" [Independent]

"Lucky" Louis McScum [Dead]

Diego Enrique Ximenez-Martinez  [Independent]

Roy H. Kettle [Independent]

Other (please specify) ________________