Performance Anxiety

by

Presley Acuna

It's almost time.

Time to show it or blow it. I've got to relax. What is it about this guy that makes me so edgy? I feel nervous. It's like a tingle in the palms of my hands.

How's my hair? Damn, I'm puffy. I should have had it trimmed, but if they went too far, I might have ended up looking like a boy scout. Gotta go for that polished but not too polished, real person look. It's too late for hair adjustments now.

Suit's OK--not flashy, just clean and pressed. But should I even be wearing a suit in this day and age? Politics are not what they used to be. No more flag pins on your lapel. Now it's t-shirts and baseball caps with your tag line emblazoned on them.

Mine's "No Scandal Randall".

It sucks, to be honest, barely fits on the hat, but it does fit on the hat, which is what counts, and it sends the right message. I've still got my integrity, unlike some of my opponents. And I'm grounded in reality. I'm solid. I'm real. Not like the others. I'm Senator Randall Bradley, proud Son of the South, and I've got no gimmicks. I've got to come across as the adult in the room. That's what counts. That's the bottom line. For this face-off, more than all the others, that has to count.

"Randall, you feeling the burn?"

That's Russell Cox, my Campaign Manager, bursting through the door without so much as a knock. Christ, what if I had been doing something weird right then? Wacking off before this thing is definitely one way to let off some steam. It was definitely in the back of my mind.

Relax, Bradley, you got this.

"Relax Randall. You got this," echoes Russell, weirdly reading my mind. He comes over to the dressing table and stands behind me. I know he's going to touch me now. Bastard. Don't fucking touch me.

Randall lays a hand on my shoulder. It's worse that he's so gentle about it. I try not to flinch. I would prefer a strong hand, if you're gonna make the breach. A solid grasp, goddammit.

Good Graces, I'm so tired. Tired of the sordid, venal game that politics has become. I can hear you laughing now. "LOL. What do you mean, 'has , Bradley?" Well, it has. There was always gamesmanship in the work of getting elected--that's as old as politics itself, perhaps the real oldest profession, hmm. I wonder. But I digress. Back in the day, politics was played by adults for adults, with reasoned jurists and a focus on the issues. It wasn't so much about sound bites and cleverisms inevitably mistaken for truisms. It wasn't entertainment.

"Do you want to go over your talking points again?" asked Russell, squeezing my shoulder.

I shrug off his hand and swivel my chair to face him, partially to hide the distaste I probably communicated in my reaction to his shoulder squeezing. Russell lets his hand drop and it hangs there in the air between us like a dead limb. I determinedly do not look at it. Neither does Russell.

"15 minutes to show time, sir," says one of the Director's interns, popping in her head just long enough to say the words. We're both startled out of our strangeness. The whole thing is so strange. The entire planet is strange, if you ask me.

"No, Russ. Tonight won't be about the talking points."

Russell looks me over, brushes off a bit of lint from my jacket, and then something gives inside of him and he deflates. He walks around me, leans on the dressing table edge and stares at the ground. He pulls out an e-cigarette and lights up. I hate those fucking things. He should know that by now. Maybe it's his way of saying "Fuck you, Senator". I suddenly feel like laughing.

"Then what will it be about, Senator?" he asks, again seeming to mock me by repeating a word that just ran through my head. I stare at him, wondering. He blows some sweet smelling, faux smoke into the air. He looks tired. It's been a circus for both of us, I know.

"It'll be about demolition," I eventually say, surprising myself as much as it does Russell. He arches an eyebrow at me, but is otherwise expressionless. A fly buzzes against a halogen bulb near my ear. Footsteps rumble past the dressing room door, muffled by the wooden barrier it provides. A tiny rivulet of my own sweat exudes from a pore on my back and snakes a long, slow and wet trail down my spine towards the elastic of my boxers.

"Russ, tonight's showdown will be about deconstructing my opponent before the eyes of the public."

"Unless Mister X does it to you first, Senator…"

I grunt, assenting, "He might, Russell. X portrays himself as something noble and yet innocent. That contrast in style to the usual grandstanding is his monkey wrench."

"And he'll be aiming it straight at your balls, sir."

"He will, but he'll have some salvos of my own to dodge too."

"I'll be watching from the trenches!" says Russell with a chuckle. A wrinkle of concern at the corners of his eyes. He speaks in bluster to me, but his thoughts are another matter.

My voice is worn gravel. "I've been on the road for so long, Russ, speaking 'til I have no voice, glad-handing flesh until my hands are numb, smiling into cameras and the overfed faces of the so-called, ordinary Americans who come out to hear me speak, God only knows why."

"Now there's a sound bite," snorts Russell.

"And yet all of my campaign's victories; all of my debate skills, all of my brilliant retorts, my ruthless dressing down of my various opponents, plus a few lucky breaks, and of course your campaign stratagems and the strength of our ground game forces, amount to nothing if I fail to defuse the enigmatic appeal of my final adversary, tonight."

Russell responds, tuned into my diatribe, "You're the last of the Old Guard, sir". He crosses his legs at the ankles and settles into to listen to my rant.

I nod, feeling a heat building within me. "And only I can do this. All the others, my brethren in office, have failed. Perhaps it's because of the dwindling skills of those who call themselves politicians. We are a dwindling faction, a discredited profession, damaged by decades of partisan politics and distorted law, corrupted by big money and ruled by intolerance. Finally the public saw and heard enough. They rebelled and, despite all the weights we put in place against populist democracy, they overran the handicaps with large majorities and elected candidates outside of the ruling class."

"You mean we elected Donald Trump," finishes Russell, dryly.

"And that was only the beginning."

Russell nods. "He defied the odds."

"And defied the law, in the end. And a few civil rights," I answered sharply.

Russell pushed himself off the table edge and ambled towards the door. "But he got things done, Randall," he says looking back, "He made sweeping changes, for better or for worse. Amazingly, the judgment of history leans towards the view that he got things done. That he broke the partisan deadlock."

"At a high price, if you ask me. Yeah, some would say he broke eggs to make an omelet…," I respond.

"But you think what we got is scrambled eggs," quips Russell.

"Exactly. This is no longer the country I was born in," I reply, rubbing my cheeks. "I wonder if you could even call us a Democracy anymore."

"A lot of people think it's more real the way it is now, sir. No more Electoral College. No more super-delegates. No more gerrymandering…"

"And no more primary process. Just this god-forsaken 2032 Presidential Smackdown," I answered remorsefully.

"It's being called People Power," says Russell, reaching for the doorknob.

I snort my derision. "You mean television ratings power. The Presidential Election process is now a televised reality show competition, Russ! There's even arm wrestling!"

We both fall into silence at this. Just as Russell is about to open the dressing room door, perhaps to cool down the air in the room, there's a knock. He opens it. The Intern. "10 minutes, Senator."

I sigh, and sit upright, examining myself in the lighted mirror once more.

I hear the door shut behind me. The creak of Russell's well worn shoes as he walks back over to me and looks me over. "Are you ready, sir?"

"Urm. Yes," I reply. I pat myself to make sure I have everything. "As ready as I will ever be."

* * *

We're walking along the backstage corridors, heading towards the podiums, to do our sound check. Russell in front, talking to the Production Assistant, making sure there's bottled water and notes ready for me.

As we walk, I reflect. I've travelled a long road to get here. Hard to believe I am even a finalist. The competition has been fierce.

The national contest for the Presidency begins with 50 candidates. One winner per state. The cream of their respective crops, selected from the local and regional face-offs and contests of skill and strength that preceded the national run-off. The idea of parties and primaries is long gone from our political process. It's all about personalities and public appeal now.

The nation has become fractured and factionalized; divided and conquered by the Internet and its ability to empower every fringe group through social media, and the panopticon of News-as-Entertainment, painting a cheap gloss of legitimacy over every insanity that bubbles up on the public stage, like fumaroles of rancid gas from the minds of the masses. The mindless mind of the masses.

California had been formidable. I was sure I was a goner against the Gippers. No one had foreseen the possibility of a candidate presenting him or herself as a team, in this case a team of clones of Ronald Reagan, who proposed assuming the Presidency as a Committee. It was seductive. The nation had considered it, but ultimately, the bickering among the Ronnies led to their downfall, especially when one of them decided to shoot all the others right on the debate stage last month. National Open Carry has its risks.

And I almost gave up the ghost in Massachusetts. The Kennedybot was an incredible simulacrum of the original Jack. An IE in a suit, looking nearly human but just an inch short of being totally convincing--we had yet to fully jump the so called Uncanny Valley of revulsion when something looks human but is not-quite-there. And yet it sounded just as bold and appealing as our original cold war President, and with its encyclopedic access to the world's data banks, it could out-fact any opponent in a debate. People were creeped out but also excited. It was something different.

I finally had to resort to throwing my glass of water at it, ultimately shorting it out. It had died in mid-sentence, blathering in moistened electronic confusion, "Ask not what this gantry can do for you, but what Yukons can do for… erk!"

The audience loved it and it gave me a huge boost in ratings, but I'll be fighting off that lawsuit for years, to be sure.

"We're here, Randall. Need you on the podium," says Russell, snapping me back to the moment.

I look around. The stage is vast, like an arena. More than that. Like a circus, in the original, Latin sense; a Circus Maximus, as in ancient Rome, an arena for performances and contests--often to the death.

Enormous, wall-sized screens lay in silent menace behind me, ready to display high-resolution images of Americana and poignant, bio-moments from each contestant's life. Faceless speakers, looming in stacks, stand to either side of the stage, positioned to blast the National Anthem and questions from the audience for all to hear. Stage monitors hang from above in front of the podiums, so as to display teleprompter texts to each contestant for the scripted parts of the coming telecast. And below them, the row of chairs and desks, for the moderators slash judges; a panoply of Internet stars and Big News henchmen, ready to turn us on our spits before the public.

I hear a whirring sound, like hummingbirds, in the air.

Up there. Camera drones hover above, under computer control, riding to and fro like spiders traveling their invisible webs, as they are being tested. Come show-time they will relentlessly race towards and zoom in on each contestant's face, capturing each contestant's smallest gestures and subtlest details, down to the rouge on our cheeks. There will be no escaping the scrutiny of the television audience.

"Senator Bradley, if you could step up to the podium and take your position, sir," says the Production Assistant, holding an iPad Wafer 20.0 and wearing a wireless headset. She barely bothers to notice whether I obey or not and hurries off in search of something or nothing.

I obey.

There's a rustle from the other side of the stage.

The curtains at the far wing part briefly and a man in gold tights, a cape and a mask steps forward, followed by a small entourage. He is not tall, nor particularly muscular, and wears no air of arrogance, as you might expect from one so brash as to wear a costume in public. He walks slowly, calmly, and looks around the stage, taking it all in, much as I did. He sees me and aims himself in my direction.

The stage crew intercepts him and directs him towards his podium, positioned several feet to the right of my own.

He sidesteps them and comes toward me, extending a gloved hand.

Russell hurries over and whispers into my ear, "Cordial and relaxed, Randall. He's just a clown in a suit, but treat him like a honorable adversary."

Honor, I think to myself. Wasn't it Sophocles who once said, "I would rather fail with honor than succeed by fraud"? Is this man in a suit, the one and only Mister X, with the silver "X" emblazoned on his gold lamé chest, an honorable adversary or a fraud?

I am reminded of Neal Carson's sex-change scandal. Now that one really took over the headlines. He had been the upstart Governor of Missouri, meteorically risen through the ranks. Then about halfway through his term, he had undergone gender-change surgery, and emerged Governor Nellie Carson. She then proceeded to parlay the story of her decision into a parable of courage, character and grit after declaring her run for the Presidency.

It had had traction with the public, until it was revealed that he or she or they--it's so confusing--had been a woman all along, who had, amazingly, faked being a man for the last 20 years. Neal had always been Nellie, and had faked her recent gender change surgery! It had been her undoing and was still being debated in the gossip and entertainment rags, with claims and counterclaims as to what was real and what was fabrication, and if it mattered at all what gender he or she or they was or were and what's so bad about lying anyway?

Now, there's just two candidates left in this race for the Presidency: myself, and Mister X, the man in the mask, who claims to be a super hero, though he has performed no overt acts of super heroism to date. And yet he does wield power of a kind. He speaks with a calm confidence and a quiet gravitas that hypnotizes his audiences wherever he travels. He talks in parables about his alleged humble roots, without revealing any specifics, and describes them as the basis of his moral fiber. He has a good story, and a good costume, even if his super hero stint is a bit of a sideshow flamboyance, if you ask me.

And yet the country loves him. Of all the clowns in the clown-car, blowing their klaxons, he has struck the most disarming note to a nation tired of broken promises and empty histrionics. His level voiced earnestness quiets the impulse to ridicule, and instead, inspires a certain slack-jawed imagining and moment of wonder. Could he be a hero to this broken country? God knows, the country needs one. Even I have felt it.

I look at him, inches away now, and wonder about the costume. Is there a subtle juxtaposition going on there? Could that be his magic? The nation has had its forays of putting Cowboys, Soldiers, Actors and Rock Stars into the Oval Office and all have crumpled, victims of their own narcissism, or once faced with the pressures and complexities of world leadership, have shown themselves to be nothing more than woefully inadequate figureheads. All have failed. Yes, I wonder about the costume. The costume leads us to wonder about the man behind the mask. Does it focus us on the man behind the mask too, by some perverse design of intent?

I sigh. Who knows? All I know is that it's boiled down now, reduced to a fine glacé. A contest of two extremes: myself, the last establishment politician, and Mister X, the first super hero. Here we are, scheduled to compete on the national stage, in a series of contests, verbal and physical, to determine who truly has the mettle, the mind, the imagination and the methods that can win over the hearts and minds of America.

I step down from my podium and meet him halfway.

"A pleasure to see you again, Senator," says Mister X, extending a gloved hand in my direction.

After a moment's hesitation, I extend my own naked hand, and clasp his. It's small. He squeezes. I squeeze back and we lock eyes. The material of his glove feels soft, like suede, and I realize that clasping his hand is not unlike holding a hamster. I almost expect to feel a rapid, small heartbeat. I pull back, but keep it slow, so as to not show my disdain.

We flash teeth at each other.

"May the best man win, Mister X," I say to my caped opponent.

"X. You can just call me X, when we're not on stage, Senator."

I nod, bemused, "Randall. But don't you have a real name? Like, a person's name?"

"No," he flatly responds, unblinking.

"Gentlemen, please take your positions. 2 minutes to show time," says another Production Assistant.

Our private moment is broken by the needs of the larger moment and we both turn and head to our respective podiums. Russell and a small knot of handlers are waiting for me there. Russell pats me down and straightens my tie, a young woman hits me with a powder puff right in the kisser. Another brushes off any signs of powder from my clothing. A microphone is clipped into my lapel. An earpiece is plugged into my ear. A comb across my hair and then like magic, they are gone and the footlights turn up. I hear more than see the rank of moderators come into the arena and taking their seats just beyond the apron of the stage.

The screens behind me flicker on and the stage glows bright with their imagery but the teleprompter is flashing "Don't Look Behind You! Look At The Cameras!" The alluded to cameras float in the black abyss before us on cranes and dollies, where the audience will soon be, red LEDs showing their positions in the darkness. A man with a headset and mic standing in front of the moderators, counts down with his fingers, as the teleprompters also do, and at zero, gives us the thumbs up and disappears. Just then, patriotic music swells from the giant speakers on either side as a swirl of LED projected lights dance a montage of red, white and blue patterns across and all around the stage.

A deep baritone announcer's voice suddenly fills the space, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome back to The 2032 Presidential Smackdown, brought to you by the Anheuser-Busch Companies, makers of America(™) beer, and the International Bottled Water Association, your one source for the only drinking water you can trust!"

Huge applause from the audience as the floor behind the moderators smoothly parts and an enormous, 1,500 person seating area rises from below on silent hydraulics, filled with this week's live audience, selected by Internet lottery at random from a pool of national applicants. Travel and lodging not included.

The applause subsides and from one of the wings of the stage steps the smartly dressed Smackdown host, Chuck Hazzard!

"Welcome back, America, to The 2032 Presidential Smackdown," he chortles, to another wave of applause.

The music subsides a bit and he takes center stage in front of the podiums. My smile is firmly pasted on and I wait for my cue. X is waving to the crowd already. I feel a nibble of resentment over that. Show a little class, caped crusader!

"Last week, the Smackdown gripped the nation, as Kentucky's finalist, Aladdin Shane, failed to survive the Dreadmill, leaving our two remaining contestants for the Nation's highest office, Senator Randall Bradley and the mysterious Mister X!"

I wave, on cue.

"That was amazing, wasn't it, folks? I'm happy to report that Mr. Shane is recovering nicely and will soon be released from the hospital. Mr. Shane, if you are watching, we just want to tell you that you are truly an entertainer, and probably a great statesman too! Give it up for Aladdin Shane, people!"

More applause.

"Well, strap yourselves in, America. It's time for the ride of your lives. The final showdown! Let's do this! Whoo!"

* * *

"I'm ready, Chuck," I say to the M.C., exhausted and humiliated, after two hours of enduring challenges ranging from quiz games, to physical contests, to demonstrations of dexterity, and now, finally, an actual Q&A session with the show's moderators, and the audience prepared to score the results with their hand held reaction meters.

"Senator Bradley," begins Leillana Gidry of POTUSPicker.com, "If you were given the power to change one law on the Federal books, what law would that be, and how would you change it?"

I feel the pressure to answer quickly--the tick tock sound effect being played from the stage speakers doesn't help--even though a ridiculous question like that might take days or even weeks to contemplate and answer with some semblance of responsibility. But too much delay in responding won't play well on this show, so I pull one out of my ass and hope for the best.

"I would declare term limits for all people in Congress," I answer. "President Trump did away with a lot of the process and regulations that stood in the way of getting elected to National office, but he left that one out. I would finish what he started."

The audience starts to hoot, and rewards me with a decent amount of applause. That was one heckuva good answer for improvised B.S., if I do say so myself.

Hazzard looks at me and flashes an approving smile, then turns to the audience and goads them, "Come on, come on, people. That's a very scandalous proposal from Senator 'No Scandal' Randall, isn't it? What do you really think, people? Let's hear it!"

Again, decent cheering and applause. Giant analog meters displayed on the screens behind me show the audience response. I take a look. 63 points. Not bad but not great.

Now it's Mister X's turn. He's been giving me a licking in all the physical challenge rounds so far. My only winning strategy is to win at all the verbal contests. The little guy is nimble and almost appears to be actually flying at times, especially during that Grab-a-Globe competition. We had each had to traverse a room by swinging from little globe-shaped handholds hanging from a downward slanted ceiling. The idea was, you moved from knob to knob, trying to get to the other side before your opponent, but being careful to not let your speed overtake you, or else you would fall. I didn't fall, but I could not overtake X, who seemed to defy gravity.

"Mister X," asks Leillana, as X confidently stands there, hands on his hips, in his gold tights, cape furling slightly. "What is your answer to the question? What law would you change?"

The tick tock sound effect fills the arena and the camera drones hover in close to X's face. He's calm as a god-dammed sphinx and even darts his eyes left and right, for comic effect. And then he says, "America, people of America, I would make all legislation subject to national ballots. In other words, all new laws or changes to laws would be subject to a national ballot. No more Congress. Just you and your vote."

What? There's a stunned silence. I think it's mostly due to people just not getting it. America is not used to this type of talk. There's a smattering of uncertain claps and a murmur grows through the crowd. A couple of woops here and there.

Mister X keeps going, "That way, each and every one of us would be citizen super-heroes. Don't you see? Each and every one of us would be directly responsible for defining the laws of the land. No middle men. Pure Democracy, for everyone."

The final deconstruction of our Government. I realize my own words to Russell, about demolition, spoken earlier in the evening, have become prophetic.

The camera drones swivel abruptly and turn their electronic eyes onto the audience. Somebody must be shouting orders in the control room, I'm sure. This is unexpected. They scan the ranks of dumbfounded faces with their faceless lenses. I gaze at the screens behind me. The drones are zooming in on people looking around the room, evaluating each other, as if for the first time.

I know what they're thinking. They're imagining pitting their vote against that foreign-looking person in the next row, or that fat fuck across the aisle, or that dude wearing that stupid Ghostbusters shirt, and over there that buttoned down, born-again putz, and what about those gun-nuts and skin-heads sitting over there? They get to vote too?

The looks of bewilderment slowly morph into expressions of fear and hate. Someone boos. It catches on like fire. Like wildfire. In seconds the entire place is booing and hissing at Mister X. Mister X looks bewildered, and turns his head in my direction, as if for answers.

Hazzard looks to the wings for instructions and nods. The reaction meters are showing low 20's for X's answer and the screens suddenly flicker and switch to an image of a can of America(™) beer with a furling flag behind it. A beer ad plays. The audience is not subsumed.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, it's time for a station break!" says Hazzard with gold plated glee, shouting a little to be heard above the growing audience unrest. "We'll be right back after this message from our sponsors. Stay tuned for more… 2032 Presidential Smackdown when we return!

The screen goes dark and the music stops. Hazzard, now serious, shouts into the crowd, "Folks please remain calm. It's just a show, let's not forget."

"Shut up, you carnival barker!" someone shouts back from the audience.

"Hey, you, why don't you shut up?"

"Fuck you, you fucking Nazi."

That last outburst sets off the entire room and soon the entire audience is trying to shout each other down or insulting each other with every possible derogatory slur. Very quickly, objects are being thrown and people are lunging at each other and wrestling on the ground.

Hazzard pleads with the crowd to no avail. The lights come on, robbing the room of its largess. It's just an ugly auditorium now, filled with ugly people. The Moderators make for the exits without so much as a nod in our direction.

I unclip my mic and leave it on the podium. I start to walk towards Mister X's podium. He sees what I am doing and does the same. He looks hesitant, for the first time since I have known of him.

Suddenly, the television camera LEDs come on again. I catch their red glare from the corner of my eye but don't bother looking. I just know. Someone has forgotten to cancel the broadcast and the station break has ended, allowing the viewing public to have an unfettered view of the growing chaos in the room.

I look down at Mister X. He's shorter than me. The room is getting noisier.

"Why the X?" I ask. He stares at me, and blinks.

"What? None of that matters, right now, Senator. What should we do about this situation?"

"I don't know. You started it. Make a speech or something."

He looks out at the crowd, climbing over their seats to get at each other. Hazzard has completely disappeared. The cameras roam the room, greedily capturing the mayhem for the national television audience. X and I stand alone, face to face, amidst the noise and clatter.

"We both started it," he says. "We both allowed it to get this way. Ourselves and all the others in this race."

"I don't walk around in gold tights, X."

"But don't you see? I thought you might get it. The costume is my way of exposing disguises. The point is, people like you are wearing the costume. The business suit. The grey sideburns. The gravely voice speaking sweet little lies. People don't want that wallpaper anymore. They deserve better."

I cross my arms. "Indeed they do, X, we're in agreement there. But they can't tell what's good for them. They don't have the skills anymore. They need leaders to guide them. Seasoned leaders. Statesmen. Otherwise, they just go after the shiny objects. Like you."

A shiny object lands on the stage, thrown from the seats below, just missing Mister X. He ignores it, "I'm more than just a shiny object, Senator. I'm a grass-roots phenomena."

I laugh at that.

He steps closer, evidently peeved. "Whatever you might think of me, I offer something better. Something honest. Something fresh. Your class of leaders are bought and sold by corporations."

I shake my head, feeling impatient. "Not anymore. That's all gone to hell, and you know it. Politics has devolved into just another perverted form of entertainment. I am this country's last best hope of getting back to sanity."

X actually pokes me in the chest. "How? By restoring the former status quo? Gerrymandering, pork, filibustering?"

I shove his hand away. "No, by using my experience and knowledge of government and law…"

"That's a load of crap."

I feel my blood rising. "I'll tell you what is a load of crap. That idea you just pitched into the crowd. Look at them now! Is that your idea of grass roots?"

X looks down at the boiling audience. Fistfights are breaking out all over the room and many people lay crumpled on the ground, unconscious or crying, or moaning in pain. No one is attempting to control the disruption, though sirens can be heard in the distance. He looks back to me, with angry eyes, as if, somehow, I am to blame.

That pisses me off and I bark at him, "The fact is, the United States of America is anything but united in what it thinks about anything. We're just too big of a country, with too many factions and too much distance between us all. We're not connected to each other anymore. There's no national identity. We're all sitting in darkened rooms with just a television monitor as our window into the world, feeding us trash and vaudeville. We don't talk to each other except in internet chat rooms. We unfriend anyone whose opinion we don't like. We've been taught by the Trump years to loath and fear anybody different from us. We're all Xenophobes. Is that what that fucking X on your chest stands for?"

Suddenly, Mister X's eyes grow wide and his face reddens. With inhuman speed he lunges at me, a blur of gold foiled anger and vitriol. He moves too quickly for me to avoid his assault and within seconds he has his hands around my neck and I stumble, trying frantically to not fall to the ground.

We have fully devolved into monsters and madmen, I think to myself as I struggle to pry the slippery little guy off of me. Every last person in this auditorium, including the two finalists for the Presidency, are trying to kill each other.

Fascinating.

I finally manage to pry him off and lift him over my head, amazed at how light he is. I guess that explains how he won the Grab-a-Globe competition, heh. He squirms and waves his arms and legs wildly, trying to throw me off balance. I'm no spring chicken so I can't do this for long. What do I do with this raving bon bon?

Pivoting on the stage, my eyes finally settle on the writhing melee of the audience and I decide.

With one enormous heave of effort, I cock my arms back and heave Mister X forward into the air, and send him sailing, like the super hero he imagines himself to be, into the thick of the audience below. He lands on them, seeming like a teenage boy throwing himself into a mosh pit, and is immediately consumed by the hands and arms of the people beneath him, who are annoyed and angry at his intrusion, or perhaps his words, who can tell?

He cries out as he is enveloped by the bodies of the crowd, a dogpile of humanity smothering the gold lame of his sudden presence amongst them, and then he is gone. I can no longer see him or hear him.

* * *

It finally ends, as all things do. Police arrive. Medical teams cart away the injured. Reporters appear, soberly narrating their version of what just happened, as the cameras pan the wreckage of The 2032 Presidential Smackdown. It certainly was that. Probably a ratings blockbuster. No doubt, it will set a new standard for action entertainment in modern American politics.

All the while, I sit on the edge of the stage, watching civilization trying to re-assert itself, going through the motions, following orders, assuming the waters will recede once again. Cox appears from the wings and ambles over, e-cig in hand. He looks completely unruffled by what has just occurred. He crouches and sits, joining me as we watch the activities below.

He turns his head to look at me, hands me a comb, pats me on the back and says, "I guess you won, Mr. President."

---

Presley Acuna is a writer, musician and technologist. He is an Ecuadorian-American, born and raised in New York City and currently living in Brooklyn. He writes genre fiction as well as stories based on his own life experiences. His stories have appeared in The Rockvale Review, Bewildering Stories, Underside Stories and The Raven’s Perch.