The Presidential Candidate
THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE
(based on a dream)
by
Clem Mason
warning: graphic language and description.
(age 16+)
(wc-1660)
John Milton jumped from the limousine before it had come to a complete stop, followed closely by his staff which consisted of his closest, most powerful acquaintances. They all pushed through the back door into the crowded room. He ducked under the drooping banner bearing his name in bold red, white and blue block letters. There was a smattering of applause as he walked across the huge ballroom that was yet void of chairs. The smartly dressed candidate nodded acknowledgement, waved and hurried into a small side room where a lone, black man was sitting in a barber’s chair. The black man stood when the candidate approached.
“Hello, Jesse.”
“Good evenin’, Mr. Milton. Sit down and I git started,” the black man said.
Candidate Milton’s staff had filed into the room and was waiting in a semicircle, watching the negro as he went about applying the make-up.
John sat back and for the first time in several days, relaxed. He let a long sigh.
“Jesse, do you remember how I used to complain about the necessity of make-up?”
Jesse grunted, followed by a low, raspy laugh.
“Well, I see now it is a blessing in disguise. This is the only time I get to relax. This is very therapeutic, you know that, don’t you?”
Jesse laughed again. “Why, Mr. Milton, I don even know what dat is.”
John chuckled, trying not to move.
“Frank, how are we doing in the polls? Can you project how well we’re going to do here?
“Well, frankly speaking…”
They all laughed at Frank’s humor.
“Really John, only God knows how we’re going to do.”
“Well, has anyone talked to him lately?” John asked in a serious tone.
There was more laughter.
John was frustrated. “I can’t stand the suspense.”
“We are doing better,” Frank admitted.
“What the hell is that suppose to mean?” John snapped.
“It means we came up 4% in New Hampshire.”
“4% isn’t that good, Frank,” he said.
Frank shrugged. “I thought sure our message would get more votes,” Frank said.
“What am I doing wrong?” the candidate asked.
“There is a right and wrong way to run for president and so for, you haven’t done either.”
“That’s what I like, a good, positive attitude.” Milton said.
“Sorry, John. You didn’t get the women’s vote nor the.black vote. We needed both.”
At that point, everyone looked at Jesse as if it was his doing.
Jesse got the drift of the conversation when he saw John staring up at him. He stopped his work, feeling self conscious.
“What?” he asked.
John’s face softened. “Jesse, what do I have to do to get your vote?”
A sly smile visited Jesse’s face. Here is this young, rich white politician asking old Jesse for his vote. It made him swell with pride.
“Well, the ways I sees it, Mr. Milton, yous goin’ about it jes right. yo talk about jobs fo da poo’. Yo talk about equal opportunity. Yo talk about social refoam. That’s good.” He shrugged. “Hell, all dem boys are sayin’ the same thing using different words. It don mean nothin’ to us poo, black folk; all dem things. You jes ain’t gots our attention.”
“And just what would get your attention, Jesse?” John had to ask.
He shrugged. “I don know. Seems ta me nobody gets noticed ’til they gets daid.”
John blinked. “Daid? Do you mean ‘dead’?”
“Yowssir, …daid,” Jesse said.
John fell silent, thinking. Then his eyes narrowed. “You may be on to something after all, Jesse.”
John Milton could hardly contain himself as he hatched the plan in his head. If the strategy worked, not only would he wake up a nation of weary caucuses, but he would utterly and absolutely shock the entire world. If the plan was executed without a flaw, he would become the next president of the United States or he would die trying.
The room was alive with loud music and voices and people milling about. The mostly black audience began to quiet as John Miltons’ group began to file onto the stage. Included in the entourage were four, burley, grim faced bodyguards that hovered a step behind the candidate. John waited for complete quiet before he began. He looked about nervously. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He shuffled uneasily behind the podium, fumbling with the thick day planner that he eventually stuffed into the inside pocket of his suit. It offered an obvious bulge and looked totally unprofessional. He cleared his throat.
“”My friends and fellow Americans,” he began. “I come before you tonight to bring to light the plans I have for you as your voice in Washington.” He could not disguise the nervousness in his voice. “When you help me become the next president of the United States, you will have fair and equal representation in the government that steers this great nation into the future with peace and harmony.” There was some applause. John saw the tall, thin albino step through the door at the back of the auditorium. He walked slowly as if looking for an available seat. All the seats were occupied so he continued on down towards the front, looking here and there for a seat.
“Through me, your generations; your people will be heard from shore to golden shore and a great united voice will echo from the mountains.”
There was more applause.
“Not unlike Dr. Martin Luther King, I too have a dream.”
They applauded louder.
By this time, the tall blond stranger was directly in front of the podium. Just then, John stepped to the front to emphasize his next point. It was a frozen moment. In that instant, the albino pulled out a large hand gun, aimed and fired, hitting the candidate directly in the chest. The impact of the bullet flung him back to the rear of the stage where he sprawled into a seemingly lifeless heap. Pandemonium erupted. The four burly bodyguards instantly took the assassin to the ground before he could fire his weapon again. There was yelling and screaming and shoving from those who would themselves kill the albino for his evil deed. They quickly rushed the assassin to the rear and out of the auditorium. The entire audience was panic stricken.
All of John’s party was hovered over him, keeping all others away. Within seconds, a stretcher appeared and the fallen candidate was whisked away to the nearest hospital. It was over. It was all over.
How is it that in this day and age, an armed assassin can slip past security where he is able to perpetrate his dastardly deed? What happens to John Milton? How can he carry on his campaign from his hospital bed or will he have to drop out of the race? What repercussions will occur? Be sure to see what happens in the next chapter.
PAY PAGE.
A few days later as John Milton was sitting alone in his election headquarters, he smiled as he read the headlines in the newspaper.
“Presidential candidate Milton shot.” A memo stated that candidate John Milton was saved from an assassin’s bullet by a pocket day planner. It’s a miracle. He reached over and caressed the little black day planner that had saved his life. Just then, there was a knock on the door.
“Come!” John called.
The door open and a certain tall, thin albino stepped into the office, smiling sheepishly.
“Travis,” John said in greeting. He waved him in.
“Ribs sore?” he asked.
Absently, John reached under his jacket and caressed his ribs. He nodded. “It went pretty well, don’t you think?” John asked.
“It went well indeed, Sir. Didn’t I tell you I was a crack shot?”
“I was counting on that,” John said.
There was another knock on the door but before John could answer, Frank burst in all excited. He held up some papers but couldn’t find the words to express his excitement. He just stood there, gripping the papers and grinning from ear to ear. He glanced at Travis and nodded a greeting as if he knew him.
John smiled broadly, nodding his head. “Didn’t I tell you it would work? I’m addressing an all black assembly and I get myself slot by a white man. Not only do I get the black vote via a major embarrassment to them, but I also win the sympathy vote and the undecided vote. We’re going to ride this all the way to the white house because my picture will be plastered in every newspaper all over the U.S. of A.” He quoted: ‘John Milton, Presidential candidate; victim of crime he vows to stop.’ He stopped to laugh. “I can’t wait to see how Leno runs with this. He’ll milk it, I’m sure.”
“I have to admit, John, I hated it,” Frank confessed. “It was much too dangerous. “What if…?”
John waved him off. “It’s over and apparently it’s working. Stop worrying.” He turned to Travis who was enjoying the moment also with a wide grin. “Now, about your ultimate demise so the public won’t be expecting you to show up in a courtroom…? I’ve made arrangements where you will be killed in a disturbance in jail and you will disappear from mind and memory.”
“Yes sir,” Travis said without emotion. “…And the money?”
“$100,000 is already in the bank in your name.”
“$100,000!” He nodded
“And another $100,000 every year for the rest of your life,” John assured him.
Travis pounded a fist on the desk. “I’m going to like Samoa.” He stood and walked to the door, turned and waved at them. “See ya!”
After the door closed, John and Frank looked at each other knowingly.
“So, is it all set up?” John asked.
“He will be dead within 24 hours, sir.”
“Excellent! And it can’t be traced?”
“It’s all covered.” Frank paused. “John, remind me to never cross you.”
They laughed. Johns’ laugh was genuine. Franks’ laugh was nervous.
The end.
If you liked this story and you feel the poor, old author deserves compensation in his retirement for this creation, then please feel free to send $1.00 to Clem Mason, c/o Backwater Publishing. 66021-0213.
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