The thick smog of fine Cuban cigars hung in the air and combined with the stench of the rotting carcass of American politics. A pungent odor indeed. This was a meeting, a summit of sorts, to discuss what direction this wounded and dying beast should wander in next. Greasy looking starched white shirts surrounded me. When silent, you might mistake one of these creatures for a Jehovah's Witness. That is until you caught the vicious, carnivorous gleam in their eyes. Oh yes, these putrid bastards were flesh eaters. I tried not to look at them when they spoke. Oily tongues darting in and out of that sneer they called a mouth. Christ, I don't know if I was hallucinating but it seemed as if they had filed their teeth down to sharp shark like points.
As if reading my thoughts an old unidentifiable man sitting to my left turned to me and said "What's even sweeter than the flesh, is to suck the marrow from the bone once it's gone."
I felt feverish and I was sweating like a marathon runner. I was swallowing hard and beginning to gag and dry heave. I guess he saw I was in distress or could smell the blood in the water because suddenly Pat Buchanon was on me.
He had been railing like a mad prophet of doom at the center of the dimly lit room for almost an hour now. This train had clearly gone off the tracks but these were his people. A group of strange, possibly violent misfits called the Reform party. I had hardly been able to keep up with his barrage of words. It seemed to be some sort of twisted stream of consciousness coda.
"Wahoo!" he screamed. "You're supposed to be some sort of man of the people aren't you?"
"Well, what the hell do you think the people are all about these days?" he demanded his rancid breath licking the sweat on my face. I could feel the heat coming off this man. I couldn't speak and I had been startled out of my nausea. I wanted to run. My eyes darted around the room desperately searching for a door. There seemed to be none. He grabbed hold of his shirt and jerked it open , spraying buttons at me and revealed his freshly pierced right nipple.
"This, Wahoo, this is what they are all about. This is how to identify with them. They are prurient, voyeuristic, lazy, self-serving waste! We can't clean this waste up but we can sweep it into the corner where we'd like to keep it! We are a valid third party in this country! We've got to attack this thing with reckless abandon! Reckless abandon!"
A man to our right rose and quickly made his way toward us.
He shouted "Jesus H. Christ, Pat! Stop your preening and grab this bull by the balls! You make about as much sense a a fucking Libertarian." It was Ross Perot.
He pushed Buchanon back away from me and pointed a finger at me.
"Son you've got some thinking to do. You'd best get on the team if you want to make a dent in what those boys in D.C. are doing." Then he whirled to face Buchanon.
"Pat, I need dogs that hunt not fucking poodles!" he yelled. I felt myself swoon and everything went silent and black.