On the Campaign Trail

On The Campaign Trail





(Inspired by the recent elections. It seemed for a while if I wasn’t getting a ton of phone calls, I was deleting a ton of e-mails. What if the candidates took it a step further?)





The black Lincoln was parked two houses down from its intended target. The lights and the engine were off, but other than that, there was nothing unusual about it. If anyone noticed, they didn’t pay too much attention. It was just another parked car.

The man in the passenger seat, whose name was Carson, had his binoculars trained on the target’s house, waiting for the victim to appear. He’d been tailing her for nearly a week now, and he knew her schedule inside and out. Unless something catastrophic had happened, she would be heading out to pick up her lottery tickets any moment now . . .

Yes! Garage door going up!

Carson nodded to the driver, and they pulled out.



Arlene was reaching for her keys when the black Lincoln pulled up beside her in her driveway. Nice car, she thought. Must be turning around or—

Without warning, strong arms shot out and grabbed her, and a hand clamped over her mouth. She didn’t even have time to call out before she was yanked into the black Lincoln and heard the door shut behind her.

It wasn’t until they were out of the neighborhood that the hand was removed from her mouth. She immediately began screaming and beating her fists against the back window.

“Don’t bother,” Carson said. “Soundproof, shatterproof, and tinted. They can’t see or hear you out there.”

Then she reached for the door handle . . .

There was no door handle.

Nor were there buttons to open and close the windows.

She was trapped.

“I’m sorry we had to do this, Ms. Keating,” the man beside her said, “but you left me no choice. You wouldn’t answer my phone calls. You deleted my e-mails. I had to take direct action.”

Arlene turned to face the man next to her. She got the shock of her life.

“You!”

“Like I said,” State Senate candidate Byron Pierce said, “I couldn’t get through to you any other way. So we’re going to go for a little ride, while I explain my position on campaign finance reform . . .”

“No! Not campaign finance reform!” Arlene searched frantically for a way out. “Anything but campaign finance reform!”



For the next few hours, they drove around while Pierce droned on and on about taxpayer funding vs. special interests, and Arlene tried to kick the door open.

At a stop light, she pressed her face up against the window, and screamed, “Help me! Please help me!”

But no one paid any attention.

She was trapped in pre-election hell.



Some time later, after Pierce had exhausted his supply of speeches, the black Lincoln returned to Arlene Keating’s driveway. Carson got out, came around, and opened the rear door.

A shaken but relieved Arlene slid out of the car, without a word or a backward glance. Before the door closed, Pierce called out, “Be sure you know who to vote for on election day!”

“Yeah, sure,” Arlene muttered under her breath as they backed out and drove away. “Anyone but you.”

The Lincoln’s license plate, PIERCE06, disappeared in the distance. She was glad to see it go.



At the other end of the block, a burgundy Impala started its engine and made its way toward Arlene’s house.

On the back bumper was a sticker: JANE MUNSON, STATE SENATE ’06.