The 2016 Election
It's time for the 2016 election, but the two candidates aren't quite what you would expect. The first is a psychopathic killer who'd rather the murder the audience than shake their hands, and the second is an old man who refuses to speak in anything other than rhymes. Debate time.
Moderator Smith walked in with panic in his eyes.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. It is, of course my pleasure to be here tonight,” he announced, “where Senators Thompson and Whittaker will be debating over core issues that they plan to address in their presidency.” Smith circled around to his seat, whispering a hushed message to the head of security on his way.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, Senators Thompson and Whittaker!”
Senator Thompson strode out from behind the curtains, a menacing gleam in his eye that instantly silenced the audience. “Happy to join you today,” he remarked coolly.
Senator Whittaker stumbled out from behind the other side, tripping over to the podium. “Tis a pleasure to be here, to be here and see here, to be here where I can present a cure. A cure for America, for problems and pain, a cure for a country that has grown bitter and vain!”
“Senator Whittaker, it is quite clear to me that the only way to solve America’s problems is to wipe out the population and let nature take its course!” Thompson remarks.
“Nonsense my dear, not when I am here! We’ll forgive the criminals, refine our annals, and make our country what it could have been! Change for the best, we’ll put your minds at rest, and make America happy and clean.”
“Ladies and gentleman of the audience, I promise that should I become president, I shall make speaking in rhyme a crime punishable by death!”
Fearfully, a few audience members dared to sneak out of the ballroom.
“Oh deary, oh deary, you’ve scared off the people! If you became the president, the nation would be a cripple!”
At this point, Moderator Smith decided that it was his duty to intervene in this election gone terribly wrong. “Senators,” he announced, “I feel that you two do not comprehend the sincerity of the situation. This debate may be a deciding factor for many voters, and I must ask you to treat it as such.”
Thompson snickered. “Moderator, I feel that you don’t understand the reaches of my influence. I advise you to simply do your job as a moderator, and try not to further intervene in the debate. Else, there may be… consequences.”
“Of course, of course, you’re a psychopath - a killer! I should have known that this election could be a best selling thriller.” Whittaker shot off.
At this point, most of the seats in the audience had been emptied, and most of the voters had tuned away from their televisions in disgust. In moments, television stations began to switch to scheduled programming in an attempt to keep their audience entertained. Feeling that it would not reduce his chances of getting elected much, Thompson drew a gun from his hip.
“I think its time that we decide who gets the presidency, Senator Whittaker. Let’s take a vote, shall we? Who here, in this room, dares to vote that Whittaker be the president?”, Thompson smirked. “Oh, nobody? How very pleasant!”
And with that, he strode from the room, no evidence remaining that he had ever threatened an entire nation’s integrity at gunpoint. Whittaker, Smith, and the remaining audience members were reduced to babbling vegetables from the malice that permanently emanated from Thompson. But for Thompson, things had gone just as planned.