Death of the Candidate
Published October 2004
Oscar bin Laden: Archives and discussion at https://www.greatsociety.org/forums/index.php?topic=1241.0
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My old friend James threw the Washington Post across the room. “God, that paper gives me a headache.” He looked over at me, “Why the hell don’t you get into journalism? You really should be writing for the people, Nacho. Your talents are squandered on the likes of Great Society.”
I was staring at a card with three wavy lines, trying to guess the color of the pattern on the other side. “Grey, hatch pattern.”
James tore the card out of my hand, “They’re all grey, hatch patterns! You’re supposed to guess what’s on this side!” He held the three wavy lines up to my face.
“Oh.” I muttered. “Three wavy lines.”
James shouted and flipped the card across the room.
“I don’t have the heart to, you know, work.” I said. “I mean at professional writing. Journalism or what have you.”
“You’re always writing, though. You constantly write nonsense stories. Drunk, sober, on the plane, on the train,”
“I do not want to, Sam I am.”
James shrugged, “You’d do well at a paper…”
“All American papers suck.”
James rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, “Oh, here we go. You and the newspapers.”
“No, really, nothing beats the Worker’s Daily that came out of 1980’s Romania. Everything you needed to know about the benevolent Ceausescu government in eight, easy to read pages.”
“You know something? Everything about you just screams ‘Lock me up.’”
Oscar strode into the room, flanked by Ali and the boys.
“Here’s fuckface,” James said, grinning widely at Oscar.
“March of the Swivelheads,” I muttered.
“Oh!” James flashed an admiring look in my direction, “Obscurity.”
After several weeks of giving beer to non-active voters, Oscar had moved on to more important matters – namely, organizing Team Oscar 04. There was myself, court biographer and scribe. James had been brought on because he was a whiz with the numbers. Rita Sullivan, the sea chantress who had so dominated the evening of Oscar’s presidential announcement last October, was working on themes and slogans – all with a touch of the grrl pirate thrown in. Werdna’s keen legal mind was on hand, as well. He refused to leave his office, though, citing a ‘large, unfinished novel project about a writer who goes insane trying to finish his novel project.’ Of course, it was odd to have him in the legal department anyway. He was about as far away from a law degree as the editors of the Workers Daily are from their families and loved ones right now. Ali was appointed Minister of Special Operations, a tip of the hat to the bygone days of truly menacing Fascist titles.
Oscar had rented out space in Wheaton, a tiny, dilapidated office above Eight Ball Billiards, where someone was killed every Saturday night. At Eight Ball, I mean. Not our office. Though a death free environment was not a luxury we would enjoy for long.
“Well,” James was saying to Oscar, “Foreshadowing is not Nacho’s forte. He’s more of a confrontational writer.”
I looked up from my notepad. “What are you guys talking about?”
Ali and the boys had brought celebratory scotch. Of course, we’d all been drinking lots of scotch lately. Part of it was due to the Royal Mile Pub, which was only a few blocks from our office. I spent lots of time in the Royal Mile when I wasn’t working on a project as challenging as Oscar bin Laden’s biography and his mad bid for the presidency. Alas, it’s that bid for the presidency which would remove the luxury of a death free environment to which we were all accustomed.
“It’s a fine art, writing,” James poured a glass of whisky, knocked it back, then poured another glass. “Nacho’s the type who just plows into something. He’s a useless moron when he tries to exhibit some sort of high-minded literary…function, or what have you.”
I glared at my companions, then returned to my notebook. It was at that moment that the doors burst open and several young men stormed into the room, disarmed Ali and the boys and then turned Oscar’s own home-made AK-47’s on us.
“We have come to avenge the deaths of –“
“I keep saying this!” Oscar shouted, “I’m just the idea man!”
“Just a minute,” James stepped forward, arms spread out. “What is it we can do for you gentleman?”
“We have come to kill Oscar bin Laden.” The lead boy spoke. He looked to be about 18, crew cut, jeans and a shirt emblazoned with a giant American flag, defaced by the words “Proud of it!” He kicked over the table and scotch, pens, and the deck of cards flew through the air.
Three wavy lines. A square. A circle. Three wavy lines…
“You are an enemy of freedom, an enemy of the people and we cannot allow you to run for president.” The lead boy screamed.
“Is this about the beer?” Oscar asked. “I mean, you can have some.” Oscar turned to Rita, ‘We have beautiful women, too. You can have her.”
Rita, shocked, stepped quickly away from Oscar.
“Dude, does that offer extend to me?” James asked.
“I’m in after James,” I said.
“We’ve come to execute you,” the lead boy snarled at Oscar.
“Bogus,” James and I said together.
“Okay,” Oscar said, raising his hands, “Let’s pretend for a moment that Nacho isn’t here and talk about this like rational men.”
I looked up from my notebook, “There’s this chick at my office and I saw her panty line today.”
“You’re not here, Nacho.” Oscar chided.
I pursed my lips, “Fine.”
“Let’s say I give each of you a million dollars,” Oscar said, “And Rita Sullivan.”
“Hey!” Rita said, but then she shrunk into a corner when James licked his lips and leaned towards her.
“Let’s say,” Oscar continued, “that’s a rational, nonviolent solution. Cold cash, under the counter. No questions, no problems.”
The lead boy lowered his gun and looked confused for a moment, “A million…?”
Oscar nodded.
“Jesus, Sam,” one of the armed boys hissed, “that would change my life…”
Sam nodded and stepped forward, “We’ll take your blood money and we’ll use it for – “
The window behind Oscar spider webbed. The afternoon sun lanced through the dusty air at odd angles. As Oscar slumped forward, a sharp crack echoed across the town. Sam caught Oscar, then shouted and leapt back. He let Oscar fall to the ground and held up his blood-soaked hand in horror.
It took a while for all the images to be absorbed. For the reality of what had just happened to strike into the logic circuits. There were Sam’s animal-like screams as he fell backwards, covered in Oscar’s blood. Then there was pandemonium outside – cars screeching, people yelling, sirens wailing. Then another keen wailing filled the air – Rita Sullivan, crossing over to Oscar’s body and putting her hands on his shoulders.
The smell of death was in the room on that afternoon. The death of the candidate. Oscar bin Laden had been shot by a sniper’s bullet and our lives were changed forever.