Thursday, November 17, 2011


Chapter One: How do you pronounce Reince?

Karl Rove enjoyed the opulence of the posh Washington DC club in which he was breakfasting with the head of the RNC. It was these sort of perks that made him feel successful. He looked up from the newspaper he had spread in his ample lap. “Have you been following the Occupy Wall Street movement, Reince?” he asked his companion, a pasty-faced, buttoned-down younger man shoveling hash browns into his mouth.
Priebus looked up at Rove and frowned. It irked him that Rove refused to pronounce his name correctly. It rhymed with Heinz, like the catchup, not rinse, like the wash cycle. Priebus picked up his napkin from his lap and very deliberately wiped his mouth before responding. “Those hippie freeloaders? I could care less.”
“Well, you should care. They could help us elect a Republican president in 2012.” Rove narrowed his eyes and stared at Priebus. What a cypher, he thought.
Priebus sat back in his upholstered arm chair. What the fuck does Karl have up his sleeve now? he wondered. “How’s that, Karl?”
Rove dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with his large, linen napkin. Then removed his glasses and polished the lenses. “Reince, you know what the spoiler effect is,” he drawled.
Priebus narrowed his eyes. “You mean like in sports?”
“Are we talking about sports, son?” Rove said. “I mean, goddangit Reince, put on your thinking cap!”
Priebus flinched visibly. God I hate it when he goes into his god-damned lecture mode. Just say what the fuck you mean and get it over with. “What do you mean?”
“In the 2000 election... you were old enough to vote then, right?” Rove said, with just the hint of a smile.
Priebus opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Rove guffawed. “Just joshing ya, son.” Rove said.
Priebus looked at Rove with an expression between disgust -- it made him nauseous to see the waddle under Rove’s double chin tremble -- and malice. Rove was such a dick. “I remember the 2000 election,” Priebus said.
“Well then you remember the kingmaker; the fellow who got Dubya elected.”
“You?” Priebus said.
“Ralph Nader, boy. Ralph, unsafe at any speed, Nader. That’s what a spoiler in politics is, and that’s what we’re gonna create for the 2012 Presidential Election, and we’re gonna mold it right outta the mud and shit of the Occupy Wall Street morass.” Rove slammed his open palm down on the table making the silverware, the plates, and Priebus jump.
“How the hell..., I mean--” Priebus stammered.
“Third party candidate. Someone the hippies -- I mean the noble youth -- can identify with. A person with all the liberal left bone-fides; a green, socialist, gay marriage, pro-abortion, free love liberal. Someone we’ll help get on the ballot, and support right up to the election.” Bubbles of spit floated in the air over Rove’s place setting as he grew in excitement. 
“You’re talking about co-opting the Occupy Wall Street movement?” said Priebus.
“Hell no, Priebus. Stephen Colbert’s already tried that. I’m talking about infiltrating it.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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