2012

The Ninety-Nine Percent Party
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove rushed into the small meeting room and began to set things up for the meeting he had scheduled. Rove had been busy. His meeting with Buddy Roemer had set in motion the various actions needed to form the third party that Rove hoped would draw significant votes away from Obama in the 2012 Presidential Election. Rove had recruited a team of people to infiltrate the Occupy Wall Street movement and, having established their bone-fides, file the necessary paperwork and pay the fees required for third party registration.

Rove’s deep pockets donors had ponied up all the money needed to pay Rove’s infiltration team, pay filing fees, and pay for getting people registered in the new party. This would take a lot of door-to-door, and shopping mall-to-shopping mall legwork and Rove already had people out doing it. It was all about money, and Rove had more ‘Bush Pioneers’ ready, willing, and able to contribute. In addition, Rove had already drafted a party platform and it was in Buddy Roemer’s hands for review. Rove had stressed to Roemer that the draft be kept “Close hold -- your eyes only.”

Rove was spending the morning conducting a brainstorming session with a few of his confidants to come up with a name for the new party. The meeting participants straggled in carrying cups of Starbuck's coffee. It was a good thing, because Rove hadn't had time to arrange 'refreshments.'

Rove thanked everyone for coming and then said, "Grab a seat anywhere. Let's get right into this. I have another meeting this morning."

Rove explained the rules for brainstorming, which he felt anyone used to this sort of exercise should know, but still. After a little prompting, ideas started to come fast and furious. Some of the participants seemed to get carried away proposing names like, America’s Party, Patriot Party, and so on, forgetting apparently, that the Occupy Wall Street party, whatever they called it, had to have a socialist flavor.

The idea was to de-emphasize traditional American entrepreneurial values. Rove had stopped writing proposed names on the electronic white board and reiterated the theme he was after. Finally this sunk in and the group started coming up with more appropriate names, like Citizen’s Party, American Socialist Party, People’s Party, Worker’s Party, and Labor Party, all of which, Rove had to point out, had already been used at one time or another.

One of the participants said, “We could name the party after an animal, like the Bull Moose Party.”

“Yeah, only we should call it the Bull Shit Party, said another man, whom Rove had brought in from the DCI Group. This guy was named John Murphy. Rove called him, ‘Murph,’ a tendency to use a shortened version of a person’s last name that he’d picked up from George W. Bush. Murph had a perpetual smirk on his face that along with his comb-over hair made him look like a standup comedian. But he was about as funny as a heart attack. He was meeting with Rove after the brainstorming session to discuss the ‘metrics’ that Rove was seeking on congressional house and senate elections.

“The name, Bull Moose Party, was just a kind of catch phrase used for Teddy Roosevelt’s Progressive Party,” Rove said. “But coming up with a name like that isn’t a bad idea.”

“What about just calling it the Occupy Party?” one of brainstormers suggested.

“Sounds like we’re talking about American troops in Iraq,” Chris Burgess said.

Rove frowned, despite his explanation of how brainstorming was supposed to work, no one could refrain from criticizing the ideas of others. And Burgess was one of the most negative people Rove knew. He had him in the session to stroke his ego; Burgess had a lot of money, which he’d made perfecting methods of anonymous spamming, SPAM filter avoidance measures, and botnets that surreptitiously collected data from targeted computers.

“How about the Ninety-Nine Percent Party?” Giles Jeter said.

“Ninety-nine percent of what?” said Burgess.

Rove ignored Burgess and wrote down the suggestion on the white board. “Okay, we’ve got enough to go on,” Rove announced, hitting the print button on the white board. “Thanks for all your help. I’ll throw these at Buddy and we’ll see what sticks.”

As meeting participants filed out of the room, Rove walked over to John Murphy and handed him the white board printout. "Murph, see that your guy...what's his name..., Chris or Chip something, registers domain names for all of these. And have him register for dot com and dot org," Rove said.

Rove was aware of the problem that Rick Perry and some other Republican candidates had when they failed to stake their claim to a domain name and found supporters or potential supporters being redirected to the web sites of other candidates, advertising, or even pornography. Potential Democratic voters had to take the new third party seriously, if they were to be lured away from the primary Democratic ticket.

"Okay, Murph, outline what your guys have come up with on the metrics," Rove said, looking down at his BlackBerry to check messages.

"Yeah, so we've got credit card purchases, cell phone records, mortgage reports, that kinda crap, and we hacked into that VoteBuilder data--"

"I don't want to know how you got your data," Rove said.

"Right," Murphy said, drawing out the word to indicate he understood Rove's need for deniability. "So, we have data on Democratic voters, you know, stuff like name, address, phone number--"

"Do you have ethnicity, age, employment?" Rove asked.

"Oh yeah, Murphy said. "We know whether they're massage therapists or welders, whether they hunt or bird watch, what charities they donate to, their arrest records, all that stuff."

"Good, good," Rove said.

Murphy went on to described the analyses that DCI was producing to help Rove's American Crossroads PAC target potential Democratic voters who might be persuaded to swing over to an Occupy Wall Street third party. "Hey, we're using social network analysis, and some kind of visualization software that--"

"Yeah, well that's nice," Rove said. "But what I really want to know is when I can get my hands on the results."

"I'll check with Chip, but I think we can get most of it to you this week," Murphy said.

Rove was texting, and didn't respond.

_________________________________________________________________

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.

2012

Chapter 11: I'm not a fucking magician
[Go to beginning]

While he drove to his meeting with Buddy Roemer, Karl Rove talked into his digital recorder. He was trying out graphic adjectives with which to lace his fliers and ads lambasting Obama and his policies. He’d always been good at this, and he rattled off a series of zingers. “Profligate spending, record deficits, monstrous health-care costs, huge bailouts, distortions, demagoguery,” he said, as he turned off 16th Street NW onto Colorado Avenue. He drove past the Rock Creek Tennis Center and parked in the southwest section of the parking lot adjacent to the Carter Barron Amphitheater. His was the only car there.

Rove put on the heavy coat he’d brought and put the recorder into his left coat pocket. He checked his calls and email, and then put his smart phone and BlackBerry into his briefcase. He got out, walked around his rental car, and put his briefcase in the trunk. He leaned against the car and checked his watch. It was a few minutes after three o’clock. Roemer was late.

#

Buddy Roemer watched for Rove from the bleachers of the Rock Creek Park Tennis Center. He looked through binoculars as a car drove past the tennis center and parked in the far southwest section of the lot. The season was well past and the amphitheater parking lot was deserted. He saw Rove get out of the car and put his briefcase in the trunk. When he was sure no one was with Rove or following behind him, he walked down to his car. He opened the door and put the binoculars under the seat. He took a digital recorder and an audio jammer from his glove compartment. He put the jammer in the left pocket of his trench coat, and the recorder in the right pocket. Then drove over to where Rove was waiting.

#

The sky was overcast and a cold wind blew across the lot gathering leaves in a series of small whirlwinds. Rove hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets. He watched as Roemer parked and walked over.

Rove stuck out his right hand and switched on his recorder with his left. Roemer stuck out his right hand and switched on his jammer with his left. The two men shook hands.

“Karl.”

“Buddy.”

“Let’s take a walk,” Roemer said.

“Fine,” Rove said, and they started down the trail towards the amphitheater. The trail was bordered by dense foliage that protected the men from the chill wind, but made the trail seem dark and the area somewhat threatening. Good place to off someone, thought Rove.

They sat down at the left rear of the amphitheater seats and each scanned their surroundings before Rove spoke up. “Buddy Roemer you picked a cold, lonely place to meet,” Rove said.



“It’s a beautiful spot in the fall, Karl, but this time of year, not so much.”

“Well it’s too damned cold out here to beat around the bush, so let me get right to the point. I can offer you significant financial support for a third party run, and should we see a Republican elected president, a cabinet position,” Rove said.

“Which?” Roemer asked.

“Health and Human Services, HUD, or Labor,” Rove said. “Depends on who gets the nod and who owes what to whom,” he added.

“How much?” Roemer said.

“How much what?” Rove said.

“How much financial support will I get and when will I get it?” Roemer said.

“Well, you know that Republicans with deep pockets contributed to Ralph Nader’s campaign in 2004, and they are willing to do that again for you,” Rove said.

Roemer opened his mouth to say something, but Rove held up his index finger and hurried on. “In addition, we will help you raise the required matching funds in at least 20 states so that you qualify for matching public funds.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Roemer said.

“Hell, Buddy, we have PACs, Super PACs, grassroots support groups...you name it. Raising the money’s no problem. Laundering it is the problem.”

“I’ll need one million up front to get off the ground,” Roemer said.

“One million?! What are you getting off the ground in, a Lear Jet?” Rove said, with a guffaw.

Roemer just looked at Rove.

“Okay, we can manage that. You’ll want to look as if you have some substance,” Rove said.

You crass son of a bitch, Roemer thought.

#

Rove went on to outline the next steps in moving the dishevelled mob that was Occupy Wall Street towards the formation of a third party. "Look, Buddy, we're not trying to get these bozos to come to a consensus or anything like that. For Christ sake, they can't agree on what they're protesting. We're just gonna insert a few people in the mix, get them some attention, and then have you announce your third party candidacy and have these people endorse it," Rove said.

"And what are the real Occupiers going to say about that?" Roemer said.

"Who gives a shit," Rove said. "First of all, they don't speak with a single voice, and second, by the time they realize what's happened, absentee ballots will be in the mail."

"So you have no intention of really trying to coalesce the Occupy Wall Street movement into a coherent political party? Roemer said.

"Hell no!" Rove said. "I'm not a fucking magician."

#

Both men were quiet as they made their way back to their cars, shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep in the pockets of their coats, as each mulled over what had just transpired.

They had agreed that in the future, face-to-face meetings would be kept to an absolute minimum. No use taking the chance that someone would spot them and wonder what was going on.

DC was a hotbed of rumors and it didn't take much to get one started. Rove had purchased a couple of anonymous prepaid cell phones, activating them from a phony address. He'd given one to Roemer, and told him how to buy another when the activation expired. Mostly, they'd coordinate their activities by phone.

When they reached their cars, Roemer shut off his jammer and switched on his recorder. Rove shut off his recorder and stuck out his right hand, "Nice doing business with you, Buddy," Rove said as the two men shook hands.

As they turned to their cars, Roemer said, "Hey Rove, one more time. Just so I have this straight. Quick run down on the plan."

___________________________________________

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.

2012

Chapter 9: Onion Rings
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove had a little more than an hour before his flight. He checked his voice mail and found the call from Reince Priebus he’d received while he was at the Mass GOP Headquarters, Talking to that arrogant bitch, Kangas. He touched the callback button, put his briefcase on one of the chairs at the small table he’d selected, and sat at the other. There were some fairly good sit-down restaurants at Boston-Logan, but Rove didn’t have time for a full meal. He just wanted a place to sit, have a beer, and hold his conference call.

Priebus answered on the second ring. Without prelude, Rove said, “Reince, what about that conference call?”

“Karl, have you been keeping up on the news?” Priebus said, making the word ‘news’ sound like a dirty word.

“What about it?” Rove said.

“Some woman is claiming that she had a 13-year affair with Herman Cain. Her name is--”

“Yeah, yeah, I read all about it. So what? He’s already had four women accuse him of sexual harassment. Maybe this charge will help him. The sex was consensual,” Rove said, with a guffaw.

“Well, Cain’s not open to any conference call, Karl. Says he ‘reassessing’ his campaign. And Romney and Perry..., oh and Newt, want a face-to-face meeting,” Priebus said.

“Jesus! What a fucking circus,” Rove said. “Hang on.” Rove ordered a beer and onion rings from the pimply-faced waiter, then put the phone back to his ear. “Reince, I’ve got a flight in 45 minutes. I’m going to email you an agreement for these jokers to read. Make copies and get them to sign it, and then-- ”

Priebus cut off Rove, “Karl, these guys aren’t going to sign anything. You know that. They won’t even--”

“Hold on,” Rove said. “What have you told them?”

“I told them you had a proposal for them, and that it could improve their--”

Rove cut off Priebus. “I said practically guarantee,” Rove said.

 “Yeah, well...” Priebus said.

“Shit,” Rove said, and ended the call.

Rove shoved several onion rings in his mouth while he opened his Contacts file and found Mitt Romney’s cell phone number. He touched the screen and waited for the call to go through, checking his watch as he did.

“Karl, what’s up?” Mitt said, sounding relaxed.

“Hi, Mitt. Listen, I’m between planes so need to hurry this, if you don’t mind.” Rove went on to describe his scheme for getting Buddy Roemer to run as a third party candidate on an Occupy Wall Street ticket.

Romney became cautious in the conversation as Rove described the “package of incentives” he thought Roemer would need to carry out the campaign. At one point, Romney, the paranoid SOB, asked, “Are you recording this conversation, Karl?”

Rove answered, “Hell no, Mitt, that’s illegal,” but Rove was recording the conversation and knew that Romney would never take him to court if it came out, because that would just damage him in the public eye.

Romney told Rove that he ‘wouldn't oppose Rove's plan,’ and although Rove would’ve liked a more enthusiastic endorsement, he settled for that; given Romney’s suspicious personality, that was as good as it was going to get.

Rove waved a waiter over, paid his bill, and started walking to his boarding gate. He started to thumb his cell for Newt Gingrich’s number, but the phone, greasy from onion rings, slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. Rove swore, picked up the phone and checked to see if it still worked. It didn’t. Rove swore all the way to the boarding gate.

______________________________________________________

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. 

2012

Chapter 5: What would Roemer want, besides the Presidency, that is?
[Go to beginning]

Buddy Roemer said nothing. Karl Rove was staring at him, willing him to react to Rove’s statement about a viable third party candidate ‘gestating.’ Roemer considered it an unfortunate metaphor.

“We think someone could run with the Occupy Wall Street movement,” Rove finally said. You know, say all the things the protesters want to hear, form a legitimate party, coordinate with a PAC to--”

“That’s illegal,” Roemer said, interrupting Rove.

“Well, you know, not exactly coordinate, but...”

“Uh huh,” Roemer said.

“Look Buddy, I have some serious money behind this idea. We just need the right guy out front. Not someone like Nader. He’s all hat and no cattle. Know what I mean?” Rove loved using cowboy idioms, which he’d picked up from the Texas crowd.

“Uh huh,” Roemer said. Spit it out Karl, Roemer thought.

“Well, who do you think could do it?”

Roemer said nothing.

“Dennis Kucinich? You know we’re redistricting him right out of a job.” Say something, you fuck!

Roemer shook his head. “He may be far out there on some things, like that ‘Department of Peace’ idea, but he’d see right through your scheme.”

“How about Russ Feingold? He’s dying to get back in the mix. Even considered a run for the Presidency.”

“Maybe,” Roemer said, sounding doubtful.

“Well, Buddy, give me a name,” Rove said, sounding exasperated.

“What’s your pitch to the guy going be, Karl? I mean, how to you get someone to go through all that hardship; all the scrutiny, all the speeches and fund raising, recruiting volunteers. All with malice aforethought?”

“Malice aforethought?” said Rove.

“Knowing it’s a sham. A scheme to draw votes away from Obama.”

Rove thought about this. What would Roemer want, besides the Presidency, that is? “What do you think we ought to offer, Buddy?”

I wonder if the shit is recording this, thought Roemer. “I’ll tell you what, Karl. Let me think about this over the holiday weekend and I’ll get back to you on Monday. You think about how you’re going to make this worthwhile for your spoiler, okay?"

Roemer saw that Rove was about to say something, and preempted whatever it was. "I mean, it’s Thanksgiving, Karl. Let’s go home and give thanks that you and I will be dead before future generations are questioning the legitimacy of our birth because we ignored global warming.”

_________________________________________________________________

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.

2012

Chapter 4: Happy Thanksgiving
[Go to beginning]

Buddy Roemer spotted Karl Rove wandering around the pavilion of the Science Center looking lost. Karl was hard to miss. He was the only person wearing a trench coat and carrying a battered leather briefcase. Roemer smiled. Rove, with his somewhat shabby raincoat and briefcase, reminded him of Columbo, the TV detective. Rove didn’t have Columbo’s funky charm, but he was shrewd as hell and as TV criminals had learned with Columbo, it was foolish to underestimate him.

Rove spotted Roemer standing by the entrance to an exhibit bordered by photos of New Hampshire autumns. A sign over the entrance said, ‘Seasons of Change.’ Rove changed the hand in which he carried his briefcase and reached out and shook Roemer’s hand. “Hey, Buddy. How’r ya doing?”

“Karl, it’s awfully nice to see you. How are you?" And what's so damned urgent? Roemer wondered. "Happy Thanksgiving.”

“I’m hitting my stride, Buddy. Hitting my stride.” Rove put his hand on Roemer’s back. “Where can we sit down and talk? I’ve gotta get some input from you on the--.”

“Walk with me, Karl. I want to show you something. Then we can talk. You’ve got a little time, don’t you?”

Rove looked at his watch, and then wished he hadn’t. He wanted Roemer to feel as though he had his undivided attention. “You bet, Buddy. Let’s git’r done!”

The next half hour was agony for Rove. Roemer led him through the Seasons of Change exhibit supplementing the posters with a running commentary on how global warming was going to impact New England. What the fuck!

Karl forced himself to appear interested as Roemer explained that New England’s fall foliage would be less brilliant. “Maple, beech, and birch trees can’t abide the warmer temperatures and will move north, you see,” Roemer said, pointing a collage of brilliant fall foliage.

Rove’s smile made him look slightly bilious. “Hmm,” he murmured.

“You know what fall tourism contributes to the New England economy, Karl?” Roemer asked.

Rove recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one and just raised his eyebrows in response.

“Tourism employs 250,000 New Englanders and another 106,000 upstate New Yorkers, paying total wages of greater than $6 billion,” Roemer said.

Rove wanted to kill himself. Maybe this had been a mistake.

“As our fall foliage retreats, tourism is expected to decline. The economic impact will be felt, Karl. And in more ways than one.”

Rove felt helpless as Roemer went on with evangelical zeal to cover the effects of climate change on cranberries, blueberries, and native Concord grapes; described how invasive pests and plants threatened to destroy wildlife habitats and take over cropland; and how maple sugar and paper industry jobs would be lost as maple trees and spruce and fir forests moved out of New England.

Finally, Rove couldn’t stand it and, taking Roemer by the elbow, said, “This is fascinating Buddy, but truth is, I’ve gotta catch a plane. I really want to run something by you that I think you’ll find pretty damned interesting, too.”

Roemer finally shut up and led Rove to a small, sparsely populated snack bar in an alcove of the Science Center, where they got a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, and found a booth near the back.

Rove launched right into his pitch before Roemer had a chance to lecture him on the environmental impacts of acid rain, or some damned nonsense. “Buddy, what I’m about to tell you is extremely sensitive and strictly confidential. There are only three people who know about this, and I’m one of ‘em.”

Roemer took a bite of his pie and studied Rove. What has he got up his sleeve?

“I don’t have to tell you that we have a hard row to hoe in the 2012 presidential election,” Rove said. We don’t have our candidate yet, but whoever it is will face an uphill battle against an incumbent president. Always the case.” Rove said, as he took a bite of his pie.

“Not for Clinton in ’92,” Roemer said, just to irritate Rove, who pretended to ignore the comment.

“We’re going to have to work hard to get a Republican elected, Buddy, and hard work alone may not be enough.” Rove winked at Roemer. “We can hope that the Democrats shoot themselves in the foot the way did in 2000, but I don’t see that happening on its own.”

“On its own?” Roemer said.

“I’m thinking we encourage a third party candidate, Buddy.

“You mean Ralph Nader?” Roemer said, and laughed.

“Hell no!” Rove said. “He pulled in less than a million votes in ’08.” Rove pushed his empty pie plate off to the side. “We need somebody who’ll take a significant block of votes away from Obama.”

“There isn’t a viable third party candidate that can do that, Karl,” Roemer said.

“There’s one in gestation,” Rove said, studying Roemer to see if he’d figure it out.

________________________________________________________________

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. 

2012

Chapter 3: Les Feuilles Mortes 
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove looked out the window as his taxi drove along Bedford Street. Trees along the river were losing their autumn leaves and they raced along the street in a whirlwind of color, but Rove wasn’t paying attention to what was going on outside. He was thinking about the 2012 election.

Rove was concerned about how Republican candidates were faring on the debates. If it was up to him, there’d be no debates. It just gave the snarky media a chance to criticize the candidates, to say nothing of the candidates themselves making one gaffe after another. As far as Rove was concerned, it didn’t much matter who got the GOP nomination, but Rove was hoping it wouldn't be Perry. Perry was pliable, and if he could keep the dunce from stepping on his dick, he might swing two terms with him, just as he’d done with Bush. But he'd had a falling out with Perry in the Nineties, when Bush was governor, and the relationship, although superficially cordial, was still fraught with simmering hurt and distrust. Still, Karl felt sure he could support a Perry candidacy and end up back in the position of chief Architect for Perry's election. That's what he did -- get people elected.

A freezing wind was blowing off the Merrimack River as Rove exited his Taxi and clutching his briefcase to his chest to keep his coat from blowing open rushed into the SEE Science Center. Why the hell Roemer wanted to meet here instead of the country club that he had suggested was a puzzle to Rove, but then Buddy was eccentric, which was exactly why Rove was approaching him.

Rove’s meeting with the ‘Bush Pioneers’ at the Armstrong Ranch had been encouraging. He had money in hand from several donors and contingent pledges from others that would help fund a third party candidate start up. Once supporters saw the handwriting on the wall, more money would come rolling in, and with transparency of Super PACs being what it was, no one had to know that his PAC was supporting a spoiler candidate.

Rove moved through the Science Center looking for something called the ‘Seasons of Change’ exhibit where Roemer wanted to meet. Rove’s mind was racing as he went over his pitch to Roemer. Buddy was a bit off the wall, but he was no dummy. The occasion called for some subtlety.

__________________________________________________________________
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.

2012

Chapter 2: A hunting we will go

[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove hated hunting, or any kind of outdoor activity for that matter, that involved ‘getting close to nature.’ He shuddered at the memory of George W. Bush making him follow along as Bush cleared brush on his ranch at Crawford. Yet, here he was at the Armstrong Ranch in South Texas dressed for ‘the hunt.’

Rove was having a ‘pow-wow’ with party luminaries who had the money and influence to help him set up the false flag operation that would lead to a split Democratic presidential vote in 2012. Katharine Armstrong, a ‘Bush Pioneer’ and daughter of the heir to the King and Armstrong ranch fortunes, was hosting the event. Her high pitched laugh could be heard coming from the kitchen, where other members of the hunting party were finishing their breakfasts.

Rove looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “Listen to this Huff, he said to the man sitting across from him in the front room of the hunting lodge. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and read from the newspaper. ‘It is Main Street that creates the majority of jobs in America; it is Main Street that sends our brave young men and women to war; it is Main Street that hurts when another manufacturing plant closes only to be re-opened in China; it is Main Street that is being foreclosed on; and it is Main Street that is suffering while the greed of Wall Street continues to hurt our middle-class.’ Who do you think said that?” he asked.

James ‘Huff’ Huffines was an exceptionally influential and often controversial figure in Texas and national politics. He was currently a bank president and COO, had loads of money, big money connections, and important political ties with Republican high rollers. In 1999, Huffines served as chairman of George W. Bush’s Inaugural Committee, donated hundreds of thousands of his own dollars to Bush’s campaign and, with Armstrong, was another ‘Bush Pioneer.’ Huffines was largely responsible for getting Rick Perry the Texas governorship after Bush left to become ‘leader of the free world.’ In return, Perry appointed Huffines to the University of Texas Board of Regents, where he was soon elected chairman.

Huffines had always disliked Rove, whom he considered a bumptious little blowhard, but he had to hand it to the guy -- the 'Turd Blossom,' as Bush called him, could generate some serious negative shit to sling at political opponents. “Some bleeding heart liberal, sounds like,” answered Huffines, taking another puff on his cigar.

“Buddy Roemer,” Rove said, studying Huffines’ face for a reaction.

“Roemer? Isn’t he making a presidential run? He’s a Republican, isn’t he?” Huffines said, looking puzzled. “No, wait. Roemer, he’s a Democrat. Former governor of Louisiana. Right?”

Rove chuckled. “Right both times. Buddy Boy was the Democratic Governor of Louisiana. But he switched parties in 1991 and then lost to Edwin Edwards in the gubernatorial contest. He tried again in ’95 and came in a poor third. Now he’s a kinda born again conservative promising to clean up politics.”

“Well, he sounds like a half-baked liberal to me,” said Huffines.

“What if we could get Roemer to switch parties again?” Rove said, almost as if to himself.

“You mean go back to being a Democrat?” asked Huffines, leaning forward in his leather chair.

“Huh? No, no. I mean run as a third party candidate. An Occupy Wall Street candidate,” said Rove.

Huffines studied Rove. The crafty sun of a bitch, thought Huffines. “A spoiler,” said Huffines.

“You got 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.