Old Coots

It was impossible for mortal eyes to discern, but virtue was one of many things missing from the group gathered at the side door of the blue van. There were five of them; closely huddled, backs to the street, heads down, all working diligently on something on the shadowy interior floor. A few pedestrians had passed with only momentary glances or showing no interest at all.

Kesha stood in the center; her black and greenish-dyed hair tied in what appeared to be an uncomfortably tight knot on the top of her head. She leaned further into the van to pull a cardboard box toward her comrades. "Less than a hundred to go," she said. "If this doesn't put Collins over the top, we're screwed."

The fat man, who was leaning heavily against Kesha's right shoulder, pulled a handful of ballots from the box and slapped them on the van floor. "Money's the same either way," he hissed, stretching his stubby fingers before taking up his pen.

"Sure," Kesha agreed, "but I'm in for the win. Future positions, you know."

The teenage girl, working on the far left, reached over and tapped Kesha's arm. "They're watching us," she whispered, then stealthily pointed behind. "Over there, across the street."

Kesha turned just enough to observe an elderly couple, standing quietly, with a small dog on a leash. "Just a couple of old coots. They can't see anything." She quickly marked several sheets, then peeked over her shoulder again. The couple was slowly making their way down the sidewalk. "Gone... now hurry up."

After midnight, Kesha drove the group to election headquarters and parked close to the back of the building. Carefully, she flashed the headlights twice. All the van doors were pulled opened at once.

"Everyone out, hands behind your necks."