FICTION BY KARL WENCLAS
“A what?” Middleton asked.
“A Destruct Button,” Brady said. “Not a real button of course, inserted into his brain. Nothing like that. Though I’m sure it’s possible, and soon enough we’ll have them in our candidates. No, I’m talking about the equivalent to a Destruct Button that could be pushed to in-effect eliminate a candidate when he or she becomes inconvenient. Or in this case, served his purpose.”
Middleton pondered, assessing the individual across from him. Brady was a nerdy, too-well educated and too eager political operative who might himself be prototype for a robot. Though Mitch Middleton wasn’t sure a robot would gush. One might be, however, as arrogant.
They were discussing one of their party’s most exciting new candidates. Grant Pellner had everything. A gruff-but-compelling voice. Strong populist arguments to make. An unbeatable biography: war veteran who’d seen combat, then started his own business with a loan from his aunt, and turned the small enterprise into a success. Conspicuously anti-war as a result of his experiences. Most important, the man exuded authenticity, which attracted the hard-working residents of the state, like a frozen custard stand in the middle of summer.
“Where did this story– this revelation– come from?” Middleton asked. “Who approved its release? Someone highly placed? Had to be.” He considered. “Someone at the top?”
Brady seemed to nod. Behind his eyeglasses, his eyes looked pleased, his smug expression more smug.
“There’s also the question of why. . .”
Brady saw Middleton, despite his impressive amount of political experience, as obsolete. An older Millennial man trapped within an old-school mindset that included concepts like loyalty, friendships, human connections. A playbook with which they were guaranteed to always lose. If the Trump era revealed anything, it was that they lived in an age of fast-moving ruthlessness. Passengers on a high-speed train; decisions needing to be instantly made. Pivots undertaken, directions changed or you would be run over by a train, one engineered by the other side. As could’ve happened in this case. Fortunately, the Party’s “Big Guy” had acted. Had pressed the Destruct Button signaling the release of an already-prepared story to their flagship newspaper.
“Let me get this straight,” Middleton asserted. “Here’s what I’m reading between the lines. We already knew about these revelations. Grant’s abusive behavior. The alleged rape. We had the information, all of it. Had it from the beginning. Yet we proceeded with Pellner’s candidacy anyway. Then, when he appears on the verge of winning, we release it to the media. We did. WE!”
Mitch appeared on the verge of exploding, carotid artery in his neck vibrating wildly. Brady smiled.
“The question is why? WHY!! An aggressive yet appealing candidate. Working class credibility. Charisma off the charts. Not simply one more buttoned-down wonk, but a real person, exuding masculinity and reality. The kind of old-style man that women, small children, and animals are drawn to.”
“Too old-style. . .”
“Exactly the candidate to inject energy into this godforsaken enterprise! I’m at a loss to explain any of it.”
“You’ve explained the first part of it,” Brady said. “His attributes as a candidate. Unparalleled strengths. The Party wanted to take advantage of them.”
The Party. But Middleton asked himself: Which party? He began to suspect there was only one.
“His flaws?” Brady said. “They also were an attractive part of the package. The Destruct Button. The knowledge we could end his candidacy at any time. Any time, via text, email or phone call.”
“This doesn’t answer the question: Why?”
“Mitch, you’ve answered that aspect of it as well. At least part of it. His populist appeal. Enthusiastic crowds. The visceral, almost violent supportive reaction to his message. “No billionaires!” Too much appeal. The bull had escaped the barn and was stampeding down the street. What do we want: a demagogue? History has shown us that’s the last kind of candidate we want. Yes, we have one in Washington now, but he’s still one of us. Us.“
Brady pointed a refined finger, on an untouched-by-hard-work hand, at his colleague.
“Us– and you, Mitch. You’re one of us. In background, education, training. Our job– our real job– is to restrain the mob. To steer it in proper directions. Safe directions. To keep the political world, our world, perpetually in balance. Grant Pellner’s candidacy has been a success in that it aroused people to believe in the process, the system. They became engaged in the game. We’re little different from a sports franchise– that’s the reality. You know it and you’ve always known it. The Show is all. You’ve read Debord. The WWE-style spectacle.”
Brady continued with his take on the world’s realities. There was no guarantee he was any closer to the truth about it than anyone else. He, as much or more than anyone had been captured by the game. Mitch was tired of all of it. His mind drifted to a topic his brain had introduced minutes prior. Frozen custard! He knew of one such stand right down the street. A perfect day for it. Summer weather– and other reasons.
Mitch Middleton cleared his throat, signaled to Brady they should wrap up this meeting while simultaneously thinking of an appropriate flavor. Vanilla, chocolate, pistachio, or raspberry?
