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     "Victory is ours!" Sam declared, as he looked over the
nearly unbroken field of Deadman campaign posters splayed
across buildings and fences all along Franklin avenue.  "Or
nearly so," he added.
     "What's there left to do?" Bert asked, leaning
thoughtfully on a lamppost.
     "Bring out the actual vote.  That of our boy's ready-
made constituency, that is."
     "They don't just go to the polls?"
     Sam simply stood there and whistled until Bert realized
what he had said and started asking more sensible questions,
to wit "What do we have to do?"
     "We engage in an ancient and honorable tradition in
American politics, known to those in the know as `voting the
graveyard'!"
     "Mmm," said Bert enthusiastically, `voting the
graveyard'.  I like the sound of that one.  It's got a
definite ring to it."
     "Don't it, though?"
     "So, how do you do it?"
     Sam blinked.  "Um?"
     "How do you go about this `voting the graveyard'?"
     "Er..."
     Bert stared at Sam briefly.  "You do know how to do
it," he said.  "Don't you?"
     "Er..." Sam repeated.
     Bert sighed wearily.
     "I believe," he said, "that I have detected a flaw in
our heretofore thought foolproof scheme."
     Sam said nothing at all.  There was nothing to be said.


               The Bob City Chronicles, Episode 28:

               Vote Early and Vote Often, Part four:

               "But the Fighter Still Remains"

               by Ben Brown


     Election day at last:

     The electoral process is, in many ways, the core of our
governmental system.  While the representatives of our
people may argue about policy, morality, and budgets
throughout the year, both at the state and national levels,
and attempt to use their own judgment, during the campaign
that they are revealed as the desperate, fawning,
mudslinging individuals that they really are.  Gotta love
democracy in action.
     When the election itself rolls around, the climate
changes, ever-so-briefly.  All of the months of campaigning,
polling, and filling the airwaves with unbelievably vicious
misrepresentations of each other seem to fade into the
background and it finally comes down to the choice of the
people--unless, of course, it's a rigged election, but in
that case the vitriol of the campaign season tends to be a
bit less acidic, as the candidates are generally all in on
the joke.  But in a fair election, or even a mostly fair
election, election day belongs not to the candidates, but to
the individual voters themselves.

     Let's look at some of these voters and the things that
are passing through their minds.

     First, Margaret Arrow.  Is she thinking about the
process of democracy, and the joys of living in a society
where the government is responsible to the will of the
people?  Of course not.  She's thinking how good it is to
have the morning off.  She's thinking of how she's saved up
enough money so that that most recent paycheck she just got
will finally pay off the car loan and she can start saving
for her son's college education.  She's thinking about how
good it is that her son has found an after school job and is
no longer doing anything criminal.  To be fair, she is
considering the election somewhat, but not in the sense of
it as a grand process of democracy, but rather in the simple
sense of which of these bozos does she want running her
country and her city for the next several years.  She's seen
all of the campaign posters around, gotten flyers from
everybody on the ballot and several not on it, and has
finally determined to vote her conscience.  She enters the
polling place and casts her ballot for the person she thinks
would make the best mayor for Bob City.

     Leon Gurkley, our old friend Lampshade Man, is going
through a slightly different process.  Through no fault of
his own, he's friends with one of the candidates, friends
with the campaign manager of another, and friends with the
daughter of yet a third.  He thinks for a bit about all
these people.  The candidate of his most direct acquaintance
is certainly dedicated, yet possibly quite patently insane,
and certainly would be if he had to deal directly with all
the problems of the city for more than about a week.  The
second, well, said campaign manager is a good egg, but
`responsibility' is not exactly part of his vocabulary, and
it's likely that his candidate, alive or not, would be
equally ineffective at running the city.  As for the third,
his competence level is a lot higher, however he, like his
daughter, has the avowed intention of taking over the entire
world, and right now, what the city needs is someone who can
pay attention to local problems.
     A sigh, and Leon enters to cast his ballot for the
person he feels most able to run the city.

     For a third example we have Elaine Dershowitz.  The
mayoral office has been a big part of her life for over
twenty-five years.  Tomorrow morning she gets on a plane for
Omaha.  She'll be living with her sister for a while, and
essentially retiring.  With that, she'll be out of the
political world forever.  It will be nice to see her sister,
but she's not real sure if that's what she wants. It's tough
to leave something you've been a part of for that long.  If
she could stay, she certainly would.  She'd stick with it
another 25 years if she had to.  She enters the polls and
casts her vote for the person she wants to be mayor of Bob
City.

     For a final example, let's use our registrar's clerk,
Doreen Watkins.  She's met all of the candidates, or at
least their representatives.  She seen files on them.  She
knows they're all a bunch of complete and utter loons that
could probably serve the people better by leaving the planet
never to return than by occupying the mayor's office.  Today
she doesn't have to worry about that, though.  Today she's
helping run the local precinct's voting center.  Last week,
though, she sent in an absentee ballot with the name of her
choice for mayor.
---------------

     The polls closed at six o'clock, and the vote counting
began.  As usual, the results filtered into the media
immediately, and with 1% of the votes counted, some stations
were already handing victory to Professor Destruction.  With
2% of the votes counted, they were handing the same victory
to Mister Safety.  With 3% of the votes counted, they
finally got a clue, and decided to wait until at least 15%
or so of the votes were counted before declaring a winner.

     Outgoing mayor Rupert Karst  watched some of the early
returns on television.  About the time the stations gave up
on their instant predictions, he got fed up with the whole
business and turned off his set.  His day had been mostly
saying no to people who wondered how he had voted, working
scheduling for city workers to go out and vote, dealing with
the usual tiny crises, and to top it off, saying good-bye to
the best secretary he'd ever had, or met for that matter.
He was plain bushed.  After supper and a cup of hot
chocolate, he undressed, got into his pajamas, turned the
ringer off on his telephone, and went to bed.

     Meanwhile, the evening went on.
-----------------

     "This is Frank Franklin at election headquarters, and
what a night it's been.  The votes have all been tallied up,
and you won't believe who's won the mayor's seat.  Or maybe
you will if you're one of the nearly four hundred thousand
people who turned out to support him.  Right now it's
looking more and more like a sure thing.  Mr. Laughlin has
already conceded the race, and Mr. Destruction is expected
to as soon as they can get a camera down to his cell.  But
as for the winner himself, we've had no word from him yet,
and some people are beginning to wonder if he even knows.
For general reaction, we go to Barry Lastoknow at city
hall."
---------------

     It was shortly after six in the morning  on November
6th that Rupert Karst woke up and turned the ringer on his
telephone back on.  Immediately it began buzzing.  Somewhat
startled, Karst lifted the handset and put it to his ear.
     "Rupert Karst speaking," he said.
     "Rupe!" Don Loess's voice was practically shouting.
"Congratulations!"
     "For what?"
     There was a short silence, followed by an incredulous
"you mean you don't know?"
---------------

     "They said it was going to be the year of the write-in,
but little did they know how much.  In an incredible
victory, a non-candidate who wasn't even trying to attract
the write-in vote has managed to spontaneously bring over
300,000 people out to the polls to vote for him.  You'd
never think it could happen, especially not in Bob City, but
here it's happened.  Rupert Karst, defying all predictions,
and in the opinion of some, all logic, has managed to get
himself elected for another four year term as mayor of this
great city.  Reaction from the people has been generally
happy, that from the pundits generally incredulous, but none
of them can deny the fact that the amazing has happened.
This is Barry Lastoknow at city hall.  Back to you, Frank."
---------------

     Rupert Karst sat there with his mouth hanging open.  He
could still reject the office.  There was nothing that said
that he had to take the office, but... even if the second-
place finisher was good, he'd have no mandate.  The city
would fall apart, and despite all of his political power
mongering, despite his occasionally machiavellian tactics,
Rupert Karst really did care for his city.
     He first needed to gather his people.  His assistants,
his political friends, and...
     Suddenly it hit him that he was about to lose a
critical staff member this very day.
---------------

     "Yes, Godfather."
     Howard "the Football" Coselli could not hear the voice
of the Don through the thick oak door.  Only that of his
comrade, Mickey "the Squid" Vitello.  Nevertheless, from
Mickey's cries and protestations, it was abundantly clear,
even to someone who was as little of a thinker as Howard
was, what the Capo was saying.
     "No, sir," Mickey's voice said.
     "No, it wasn't a joke."
     "No, if we had..."
     "Yes, sir."
     "No, we'll never do it again."
     "Yes, sir."
     "No, sir."
     "I'm very sorry, Godfather."
     "No, I mean no disrespect."
     "No, sir."
     "No, sir."
---------------

     Karst whipped out of the door, his pants hastily thrown
on,  his belt still loosened about his waist, and his pajama
shirttail flapping from underneath his winter jacket.
Clumsily he fished the keys to his car out of his pocket,
unlocked the door, and hastily jumped in.  Fastening his
seatbelt only after he had started up the engine, he roared
off in a squeal of burning rubber.
---------------

     "In a related, and perhaps even more surprising story,
the District 4 congressional election has taken a bizarre
write-in twist of its own.  From seemingly out of nowhere,
mayoral candidate Diego Ximenez, after an extremely public
withdrawal from that race, has come up with a tremendous
groundswell of authentic grass-roots support to beat out not
only the incumbent Democratic candidate, but also his
Republican challenger, and win himself a seat in the United
States House of Representatives.  Ximenez has not been
available for comment, but with the 55% of the cast votes he
garnered, it would be tough for him to deny that the people
want him as their congressman.
---------------

     Karst left his car sitting at an angle in the red zone.
They'd tow it, sure.  He'd even pay the fines, but if he was
going to keep his job, he wasn't about to lose the most
loyal staffer he had because he was searching for a parking
place.  He vaulted through the sliding doors and into the
main concourse.  Nearly gasping for breath, he reached the
ticket counter.
     "Flight.  Omaha.  8:00.  Where?"
     "Gate 16A, but you'd better hurry."
     The Bob City International Airport was technically
outside of the city limits, and under the jurisdiction of an
airport board, which the city was only vaguely connected to.
Karst made a note to do something about it as he stumbled
through the maze of plywood that was accompanying the
renovations, which had been going on for about fifteen
years.  He stumbled down an uncarpeted stairway into the
lower level, where the flights departure lounges still were
pending the construction of real jetways.
---------------

     "Don't worry about it, Safety," Wilton `Pinky' Smith
consoled his friend.  "We'd rather have you working with us
anyway."
     Mr. Safety still looked a bit disconsolate.  "All that
I could have done... everything I could have brought up to
standards..."
     "Look, you'll find a way," Pinky said, hoping that his
words weren't precisely true. "You just weren't meant to be
mayor, that's all."
     "Not meant to be mayor..." Safety trailed off, a
strange glow coming into his eyes.  "Yes, of course!"  he
shouted.  "Mayor isn't the job to make this country safe!
No, but wait four years, then... then, there will be another
election, and I'm not shooting for any silly mayoral
position!"
     He stood up and gestured demonstratively.  "In four
years, they won't call me Mr. Safety!  They'll call me...
Mr. President!"
---------------

     Karst panted as he ran along the dull cement floor of
the airport's lower level, counting out the gates as he
passed.  Twelve... not too much further to go.  He could see
the sign ahead.  Fourteen... the lounge was empty.  The
passengers had already left.  Sixteen!  Here it was.  The
plane was still there, sitting on the soggy runway, stairs
jammed up against its side with passengers climbing up them
one by one.
     "I've got to go out there," he said to the airline
employee who stood by the gate.
     "I'm sorry, sir, ticketed passengers only."
     Karst didn't respond, but instead rushed over to the
large plate-glass window that looked out on the landing
field.  She was there, about halfway through the line,
wearing an overcoat and carrying an oversized purse.  He
couldn't let her leave.  He needed her too much.  He had to
get her attention.
     "Elaine!" he yelled, banging on the glass.  "Elaine!"

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

     The next few days were fairly quiet, except for the
sudden and violent demolition of the old city records
building.  On the one hand, it was an act of violent, near-
terroristic vandalism.  On the other hand, the building was
crumbling, vacant, and had been slated for demolition
anyway, so the act was not seen as vengeful, wanton,
destruction, but rather as an altruistic gesture to rid the
city of an eyesore and save it some money, while at the same
time following through honestly on a campaign promise--a
gesture many of the city's inhabitants admired and promised
to remember come the next election.

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