Caucus Sucker

DeerTick, East Carolina. The E. Howard Hunt Convention Center and Jai-Alai Courts. 0900 hrs.
I couldn't believe I was really here. For a small-town hard-case like me to be hanging out in downtown Deer Tick--our state capitol and chief beef-jerky exporter--was one thing; to be attending our Republican caucus and helping to pick our Presidential nominee was the thrill of a lifetime.
Welcome Reactionaries, the banner hung across the hanger-sized hall proclaimed. As huge as the words were, they were almost lost in the sea of American and Confederate flags that symbolized our conservative virtues--loving your country, and sentimentally glorifying a genocidal racist past. This was my kind of convention.
I had already noticed some hot Republican chicks checking out my camo tuxedo. The ballot box might not be the only thing getting stuffed tonight, I thought, winking at a redhead over my complimentary virgin martini. She winked back. This was truly the best day of my life, and I'd only gotten here by sheer luck.

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. The McFab compound. Three days before the convention.
I rushed to answer the phone before it quit ringing, struggling to pull up my pants and hide my Mike Huckabee calendar at the same time. I tossed the calendar under my bed and got to the phone on the sixth ring.
"I can't believe it's not butter consumer hot line," I answered.
"Um...Randy McFab please?"
"Maybe. Depends on who's calling." I never give away my identity without good reason--a mercenary is always aware of operational security.
"You don't know me, but--"
"That's good enough for me. This is Randy McFab."
"Well, yes sir. I'm calling on behalf of the East Carolina Armed Republicans."
Ah, ECAR. I'd been a member since Hector was a pup, whatever the hell that means.
"Continue," I said. "This line is secure."
"I'm happy to tell you that you have been selected to represent Parish County at the East Carolina Republican Presidential Caucus, Mr. McFab."
"I--what? Why?" I couldn't believe it. All my hard work, all the times I stood up for what was right by 1950's standards--had it finally paid off? It had.
"Yes, Mr. McFab. We chose from among all the people in the county who still support George Bush...And you were that person. We'll be happy to cover your expenses, and we're sure you'll support whichever candidate is most dangerously out of touch with the majority of Americans."
"You bet I will," I said. "Semper fuckin' Fi."
I started packing immediately.

DeerTick, East Carolina. The E. Howard Hunt Convention Center and Jai-Alai Courts. 1100 hrs.
I had been mixing and mingling, sharing my political views with my fellow patriots and getting high on virgin drinks and second-hand cigarette smoke, when an important-looking fellow in a Brooks Brothers suit thrust a microphone in my face. A younger, more casually dressed man behind him pointed a video camera in my direction.
"Welcome to the caucus," Brooks Brothers said. "What issues are most important to you?"
Holy Shit. I recognized him. Brooks Brothers was none other than Guy Testoral, the weatherman for the local Fox affiliate. He never predicted sunshine, because sunshine is for liberals and pansies.
"Well, Mr. Testoral, I--" Strange. My voice was echoing throughout the convention center. I glanced up and saw that our interaction was being displayed on the huge video screens that adorned each wall of the building. They had been interviewing random attendees, but I never expected I would be one of them. This was no time for stage fright, so I put on my game face and answered like a pro. "You're really cool, Mr. Testoral. I...Hello everyone."
"Very good sir. But tell us about your views," Testoral said.
"Well...I'm a simple man," I said, and everyone applauded at that. "I know that you don't need no book learnin' to plow a straight line or govern a nation." The applause was louder. "I am against terrorists, especially when they attack America." The response was deafening, and I was shocked to see that the thousands of people present stood rapt, watching me on the screen.
"I can see you're a man who has thought out his positions," Testoral said. "Why don't you tell us your name."
"McFab," I said, speaking into the mic. "James...I mean, Randy McFab."
"McFab!" someone yelled from across the room.
"Mr. McFab," Testoral said, "what would you do if you were President?"
"I would free G. Gordon Liddy, sir."
"He, uh, he's been free for years."
"Then I'd free him again!" The place erupted in cheers. Damn, this could get addictive.
"And what should be done about Iraq?" Testoral asked.
"Kill 'em all," I said, "and let Reagan--i.e. God--sort 'em out!"
Someone else shouted McFab! and it became a chant. McFab! McFab! McFab!
"Quiet, please," Testoral implored the crowd. "What about health care, Mr. McFab? Which candidate has the answer?"
"None of 'em. If people without insurance are unhappy with their health care, they should complain to their doctors. And as for gun control..."
Guns! Guns! Guns! the crowd yelled.
"As for gun control, " I continued, "gun control just means staying on target when you're emptying a clip into a Puerto Rican who's trying to steal your bike." More applause. "Not that a real man would exercise or ride a bike, " I added, and the shouts and applause went on for nearly a minute.
When it finally died down, Testoral asked me one more question. "What about the majority of Americans who don't agree with our small-town, uneducated beliefs? What place do they have in a democracy that doesn't actually count a majority?"
"Mr. Testoral...It only takes three people to make a majority. God, guns, and guts. And two of those ain't even people."
The convention center got louder than the end zone stands at a Georgia Bulldogs game.
McFab! McFab! McFab! McFab! McFab!
Testoral thanked me and I headed towards the bar for a virgin scotch on the rocks.

DeerTick, East Carolina. The E. Howard Hunt Convention Center and Jai-Alai Courts. 2000 hrs.
Wow. Since my interview, I'd been congratulated by hundreds of people, even people with jobs who normally don't talk to me. I had four or five fat, ugly chicks to choose from for tonight's entertainment, and some of them were only fat or ugly--not both. I was on top of the world, and the virgin boilermakers I'd been drinking only added to my elation.
"McFab?" It was Testoral. "I need to speak to you in private."
I discarded my O'Douls and followed him through a door and into a smoky room.
It was dark and, as I said, smoky. Seven or eight men sat around a table, looking very serious and smoking even more seriously.
"So...McFab." He was at the head of the table, and was fat enough to be the obvious leader.
"Yes sir. Randy McFab." I stood at parade rest, just like I'd been taught from books and movies about the Marine Corps.
"The people love you, McFab," he said. "Do you know that?"
"Love is an emotion common to liberals and hippies," I said.
"And that," he said, pounding the table, "is why we want you!"
"Want me? " I didn't get it. "What, you need someone killed? I should tell you I charge seven bucks an hour plus expenses, and I expect a back rub and--"
"No, no," he laughed. "Maybe you don't know me. I'm Boss Balltoucher," he said. "Don't ask how I got the nickname, it's a long story. The fact is, McFab..." He paused to cough violently and light another cigarette. "I've been running the Republican party here since Hector was a pup. Who the the hell is Hector? I don't know either. The point is, the people here love you, and I know a candidate when I see one. We want to nominate you as our...Well, nominee."
Heads nodded around the table.
"Nominee for what?" I asked. "I don't understand."
"For President," Balltoucher said. "For President of the United States."
My head swam. This was way beyond even my most extravagant dreams, the ones involving Ann Coulter and a loofah.
"I don't know what to say," I said. "Except that...Yes, I should clearly be President of the United States."
"Very gut." The voice sounded foreign, and it came from a small, skinny man at the table. "There is only one thing we require, Mr. McVab," he continued. "We require..."
Boss Balltoucher interrupted. "This is Dr. Heinrich Tang, Randy," he said, indicating the little man. "He worked for the East German family planning police. Until being fired."
"Um, hello doctor."
"Ja," doctor Tang said. "I was let go for...How do you say? Breakfast fetus? Anyway..." The doctor pushed himself back from the table, and I saw he was in a wheel chair. "I am quite certain, Herr McFab...I am quite certain you are electable...Unlike the serial adulterer Giuliani, or the Baptist Huckabee who thinks man lived with dinosaurs, or the stinking, filthy MORMON!" He screamed the last word, and shook violently for a few seconds before composing himself. "And as for that McCain," he continued, catching his breath. "Herr McCain got captured, didn't he? The wehrmacht does not get captured!"
"I agree, I guess," I said. "But as for what you require, I'm not sure what you mean."
"Yes!" Balltoucher took over again, and pulled down a world map from an overhead display. "This is the world, McFab," he said. "And as you can see the weather sucks."
There were indeed little sad faces over various countries.
"What we need," Balltoucher continued, "is a candidate who will listen to real science--scientists like Doctor Tang here--and realize global warming is a good thing!"
"Sehr gut," Doctor Tang added.
"But--global warming isn't real," I said. "It's a liberal lie."
"We all thought that," Balltoucher said. "Doctor Tang?"
"Ja." Tang wheeled himself towards the world map. "This is antarctica," he said, pointing towards the map. "The ice there is melting. Also here, in the nord pole. The warming is real, and even my research has failed to prove otherwise. Though I tried. Oh mein Gott I tried!"
"It's okay, doctor," Boss Balltoucher said, patting the German's shoulder. "His guilt crippled him," Balltoucher whispered towards me.
"So..." I didn't know what else to say.
"So, Mr. McFab," Balltoucher said, "we need a candidate who will say this is all for the good. Even the idiots out there now acknowledge that it's happening. We need someone who will say it's for the good, so we don't end up with a country full of sissies driving cars no bigger than what we need. So we don't end up turning off a light when we could leave it on for no reason. So we don't stop equating a large pickup truck with masculinity. So we stay American!"
"Ja," Doctor Tang said. "Weitzer zu American!"
"We can get you elected," Balltoucher said. "I mean, they have to count Florida."
I felt all my happiness drain out of me. The elation was gone, and even though I had been picked out to be special I knew the really special thing was to be right.
"You sicken me," I said. "All of you." I looked around the table to make sure they all knew they sickened me individually as well as as a group. "How can you be so blind?" I walked to the map and did some pointing of my own. "Alaska!" I shouted, thumping the map. "It's cold there! Russia!" I said, pointing to the southern hemisphere. "Cold there, too. Gentlemen," I said, leaning on the table, "there is no such thing as global warming, and anyone who thinks there is is a commie, a liberal, and probably much worse--a democrat!"
"But Randy," Balltoucher said, "the science--"
"The science? The science?" I got right up in his face. "Science is the liberal philosophy that claims gun deaths are caused by bullets; that murdering murderers doesn't solve the murder problem; that gay marriage isn't the reason my wife left me for a breakdancer! I spit on your science," I said, and spat on the coffee urn in the center of the table. "I'm not your candidate. If I'm running for anything, I'm running because I have warrants out for me. Not for this pack of lies."
I swept out of the room, pausing only to fill a cup of coffee from the urn and fill my pockets with a few of the Ba-Lack Obongo pins they had on the table.

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. The McFab compound. 0 900 hrs. The next day.
"So," Mama said, a good bit of breakfast in her mouth, "I heard they nominated you for President."
"Yeah, they did." I took a bite of deer sausage and washed it down with Zima. "But they weren't real conservatives, Mama. They were closet liberals."
"Well, I hate that you had a job and didn't take it, but..." She handed me the morning paper with a few items circled. "Burger King is hiring."

Dying Pet Sounds

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. Starbucks. 0900 hrs.
Well, shit. When I'd heard there was a "Starbucks" opening downtown, I naturally assumed the place had something to do with the guy from Battlestar Galactica. I realized I was wrong as soon as I joined the crowd packed inside for the grand opening--I was the only guy there dressed as Count Iblis, and what I first mistook for a Cylon turned out to be an espresso machine.
I decided to stay anyway. I could use a coffee, and I was pretty sure some chicks would want to explore the interior of my mysterious space-vampire costume regardless. I spent my thirty minutes in line deciding which woman would win a fantasy date with me, and had decided on the fat one when my turn came up.
"Welcome to Starbucks!" He was skinny and pale in the way that liberals and junkies are. "I'm you're barista, Zane."
"You ain't gonna be my barista in this state, Zane," I told him. "We passed an amendment banning that sort of thing."
I eyed the menu but couldn't make sense of it. "I don't speak German," I said, "so I'm gonna order in regular english like I do at Big Jim's Breakfast Barn...I'm here for coffee, not some fancy shit."
"Sure," Zane said, recognizing a dangerous mercenary when he saw one.
"Right, then...Gimme a venti quad mocha valencia with soy. And make it quick, son."
I checked the place out while I waited for my order, and noticed they sold subversive CDs from punk-rock acts like John Mayer. I made a mental note to report it to Homeland Security.
"McFab!" A worker handed me my coffee, and I spat my wad of chewing tobacco into the spittoon on the counter. Jesus, I thought, looking where I had spit. Some idiot put money in their spittoon. Oh, well. You can't outlaw dumb. I was headed for the door when the bulletin board caught my eye.
Stand up and fight!, the flyer read. I looked around me. Just who in here wanted to fight me? I didn't spot an obvious threat so I took a closer look at the poster. Join PETTA tonight at the Fort Braggart Public Library, it read, and bring your self-righteousness.
I had heard of PETTA and their desperately unattractive leader, Ingrid Oldgroddy, and I actually agreed with a lot of what they said. I knew, for instance, that they were against testing drugs and chemicals on animals-- and I am, too. Why test on animals when we have criminals and Mexicans available to us?
I decided to attend the meeting and find out more about this group. If they were on the up and up, I could maybe do some mercenary work for them, take out some of their rivals. If they were anti-American, I would do what I always do with those types...I'd take them down. Take them right down to Hell.
I sipped my mocha, careful not to burn my mouth.

The McFab compound. 1800 hrs.
I had spent the afternoon researching PETTA, and I hadn't liked what I'd found. They were a splinter group of PETA, the terrorist group that tries to disrupt the American economy by slowing down sausage and mink production. Apparently the difference between the two groups was that PETTA felt it was okay to eat kidney beans whereas PETA still insisted the name sounded "too much like viscera" to be humane. The split didn't matter to me anyway--they were one and the same in my book and if I didn't like what I saw at the meeting they'd have one angry mercenary too many on their hands.
Still, though, I love animals, and was willing to keep an open mind. Besides, its a known fact that activist chicks are easy...and I was long overdue.
I started getting dressed for a night with the ladies.

Fort Braggart Public Library. 2000 hrs.
I was ready for action, decked out in my mauve BDU trousers, All Merc and No Play T-Shirt, and a good quarter-cup of mustache wax. The ladies would be on me like ants on an old, dead grasshopper.
I was ready for another kind of action, as well. I had a knife hidden in one combat boot, a sharpened spork in the other, and a urine-filled watergun tucked down the back of my pants. If I needed any other weapons, I could use my training to improvise. I had once made a working crossbow out of an empty beer can, a hot dog, and two handfuls of my own pubes...and that weapon had nearly blinded me. I'd be ready, no matter what.
The PETTA group wasn't hard to spot. They had commandeered a round table over by the Hobbies and Vivisection shelves, and they were dressed like typical liberals. Lots of sandals, no mustaches, and hemp where a gold chain with an eagle or anchor should be. I counted eight of them, six broads and two people. I liked my odds should it come to a fight, and the weight of the water gun reassured me. I had enough urine to go around.
"Howdy ladies," I smiled, approaching the table. I gave the guys a look that let them know the term "ladies" included them, too.
"Hi," one of the girls said. "I'm Morningflower. Please, join us."
I took a seat between a girl with a purple high-and-tight and a guy with what appeared to be long, braided feces growing out of his head.
Morningflower introduced me around. Besides her, there was a chick named Oracle Goat and four broads named Dawn. The guy with the braids was Colt, and his "partner," as he put it, was a black guy named Hondo who had decided to be deaf and mute as a form of protest when pancake-wrapped sausages were first introduced into the frozen breakfast foods market.
"Pleased to meet you freaks," I said. "I'm Randy McFab. You might know me from various media accounts...The failed hostage rescue ..." Blank stares. "The assault on Lane Bryant?" Still no recognition. Christ, did these people ever get out? "American mercenary prosecuted in subway groping?"
"Oh, yeah!" They knew me, and I admit it's an ego boost to be famous.
"Welcome, earth brother," Colt said, and his partner Hondo waved his hands around in a peculiar pattern. "He's signing 'welcome'," Colt explained.
"That's funny," I said, "I know ASL, and it looks to me like Hondo just signaled in a double steal."
"Well..."Colt got a little defensive. "Hondo hasn't had time to learn ASL since his protest. He's just using what he learned in the minor leagues."
Holy dogshit. It dawned on me. "Hondo" was Hondova Mojito, the Dominican slugger who had been a top major-league prospect before he spent a weekend with ex-Dolphins running back Ricky Williams in Amsterdam and came back insisting no strike should be called when one hits the "imaginary" ball. He was out of baseball shortly thereafter, and hadn't been seen since.
I wasn't going to embarrass him, so I just signed for him to lay down a bunt and concentrated on the ladies.
"Randy," Morningflower said, "we were just talking about what we can do to stop the cruelty going on at Fishco."
"Fishco?" I knew Fishco, it was the store out at the mall where they sell tropical fish, aquariums-- all the stuff you need if you're too cold and impersonal to own a dog or cat. I certainly hadn't seen any cruelty there.
"Yes, Fishco," Oracle Goat said. I noticed she was kind of hot, and stroked my mustache at her. "Fishco," she went on, oblivious, "are modern-day Nazis. They intern fish and then...then..." She broke down.
"It's okay," One-of-Four Dawns said, holding her. "What they do Randy, is...They sell them. They sell the fish."
"They sell the fish, man," Colt said, and Hondo added an indignant "take the next pitch."
"So..." I was a bit lost.
"They sell them," Morningflower said, regaining her composure, "into slavery!"
"Slavery?" I was against some forms of slavery, but had no idea the institution could involve tetras.
"Slavery, Randy," Oracle Goat said. "Just like the white man selling Africans to the highest bidder. That's what pet stores do."
"So...Let me get this straight," I said. "Selling pets is the moral equivalent of enslaving human beings?"
"Yes!" They all nodded agreement, except for Hondo, who tugged his left ear and brushed an elbow.
"That would be ridiculous," I said, "if you weren't kind of hot, Oracle Goat. So what do you want me to do?"
"Well..." She batted her eyes at me. "I see you're a..."
"Man of action?" I suggested.
"Yes...I mean, Colt here obviously can't do anything. No offense, brother Colt."
"None taken."
"And Hondo," she continued, but didn't need to. Hondo was chasing an imaginary fly ball down the third base line behind his eyes.
"So you need a real man, a mercenary...You need me."
"We need you, Randy."
With the way she looked right then, there was no way I could say no.
"Tell me what you need, my sweet, sweet goat."

Debtor's Square Mall. 0200 hrs. The next day.
The mall was pitch-black, deserted. I had infiltrated by crawling four hundred yards through a pipe filled with raw human sewage, exiting in the parking lot. I then used the key to the entrance door I had from when I worked at Taco Bell. The lone security guard never heard me coming--he smelled me, but by the time he turned around I had swung a sock filled with Hummel figurines at his skull and dropped him where he stood. I left him unconscious outside Hot Topix and headed for Fishco.
It was an easy break-in. I'd done so many black ops, gaining entry to the gated fish store was no problem. Four hours with a hacksaw and a pound of C-4, and I was in.

Fishco. 0600 hrs.
The tanks glowed blue in the darkness, the captive fish casting shadows on the walls as they swam back and forth in their tiny prisons. I pulled some plastic bags out of my combat pack and began filling them with water.
"Free at last," I whispered in the darkness. "Free at last."

The McFab compound. 1900 hrs. The next day.
I had gotten Mama out of the mobile home by telling her the dollar store was having a 99-cent sale, which left me and Oracle Goat to ourselves.
I lit the candles on the table, and noticed that she, like most women, looked even better in dim lighting.
"Randy, " she said, "freeing those fish was so brave...You're my hero, do you know that?"
"Of course I am," I said. I took her salad plate away and headed for the kitchen for part two of our romantic dinner. I was gonna get laid, and this time I wasn't going to pay for it or find out she was a dude.
I returned with the platter and pulled back the silver cover with a flourish.
"Dinner, my dear, is served."
She squinted at the entree. "What--what is that?"
"Ah, it's french, my angel. The cychlids are sauteed in garlic butter, while the mollies are lightly breaded and--"
"OH MY GOD!" She appeared to be turning green.
"What is it?" I said. "You don't like garlic? The goldfish are steamed, very light. They'll go great with the frogs..."
Oracle Goat threw back her chair and ran out, crying.

The McFab compound. 2100 hrs.
I still couldn't figure it out. She wanted the fish freed, I freed them. There's two kinds of animals, eatin' and pettin', and if those fish weren't meant to be pets...
Oh, well. I had done my job, that was all that mattered. A merc can't help it if his clients are crazy. I took a last bite of gourami and headed for bed.