Fiona Mathis was an adversary of Manny’s during the early days of furtl. Manny sat up in bed and watched with renewed attention.
“Fiona, thanks for joining us today,” the host said.
“Thanks for the opportunity. I’m eager to–”
The host cut her off. “Can you please speak up? The mics seem to be having trouble picking up your voice.” A light chuckle came from the prerecorded laugh track.
“My apologies,” Fiona said.
“First off, congratulations on the DCS’s approval of your election bid.”
“We are pleased to see the DCS recognize the benefits of opening this election up to more than two entrenched parties.”
“You are funding this campaign on your own, correct?”
“That is correct.”
After furtl’s acquisition of Fiona’s online payment company PAYGO, she left the private sector and went back to graduate school to finish her PhD in political science and tack on another PhD in philosophy, (contemporary deontological ethics). She went on to found a political party called the Mods, short for Moderates, via which she advocated for a new approach to politics, focusing on a number of quantitative and qualitative decision-making methods. Those approaches gained some traction in academia throughout the 2020s but struggled to break through to a wider audience. Running for president as a third party candidate represented Fiona’s effort to change this.
“And do you think that will be enough?” the host asked.
“I am confident we can introduce a civilized, thoughtful alternative to the current choices.”
Ruthie rolled over and her arm flailed onto Manny’s stomach.
“Are you suggesting our sitting Vice President is uncivilized?” the host asked.
“I am suggesting that the tenor of the discussion needs to change. We need to rethink our approach to political discourse.”
“Seriously,” Manny said to the television.
“What happened?” Ruthie asked, lifting her head and looking around, disoriented.
“Go back to sleep,” Manny said.
Ruthie rested her head on Manny’s chest and squeezed right into his snuggle zone. Manny let her be and went back to watching television.
“And you think that will be enough to overcome the fervent support Vice President Field receives throughout this country’s heartland?” the host asked Fiona.
Field’s supporters all saw the vice presidency as an eight-year training program for the top seat, but President Corcoran’s recent efforts to dismantle term limits threatened to undermine this strategy. Corcoran spent significant political capital strong-arming several senators to sponsor a bill to introduce an amendment to the constitution regarding term limits – a strategy referred to as “Bloomberging.” And he was making progress on this front, which worried Field’s supporters. In public, Field presented himself as supportive of Corcoran’s effort, but behind the scenes, Field’s mega PAC – the Field Team – had already surpassed Corcoran’s in terms of cash on hand. The Field Team also launched a media onslaught to undermine Corcoran’s efforts to dismantle term limits, which in turn threatened to crack the unified front of the Republican Party.
Kurt told Corcoran in no uncertain terms to abandon his third-term quest and graciously hand over the reins to his vice president. Corcoran’s easygoing nature led to two terms of relative political stability, and a third term would not have been without its benefits for the furtl empire, Kurt thought, but he was worried about the 83-year-old’s late-stage dementia. On a number of occasions Corcoran launched into material from his old movies, which was sometimes relevant to what he was talking about. But when he performed the final monologue from Death Crunch at a prolife fundraiser, Kurt realized that the optics of furtl supporting a third Corcoran term were going to be problematic.
Field’s abrasive and unpredictable style, however, worried Kurt, too. His supporters were an angry and easily-agitated bunch that traveled in packs and turned on establishment figures with little warning or tact. When Field’s dimply little-boyish face burned red as he railed against the “multis,” as he called them, his supporters would fly into uncontrollable rages right along with him. “These multi-cultural, multi-coastal, multi-sexual, leftwing, Godless Nazi socialists are going to spend us into the ground. Y’all know what happens when we dig ourselves too deep a hole?” Field would frequently ask. “You wind up in China!”
Field was referencing a short campaign video his Mega PAC produced. It was critical of the amount of US debt the Chinese government held and had been viewed over 445 million times and counting. In it, a little girl named Alice is skipping about an idyllic American playground. A giant hole in the ground opens up underneath her, and she falls so far down into this gaping maw that she ends up in China. The warning of this video was very similar to the PSA Manny saw at the ElectroMART, but in this video Alice is forced to work in a dirty smoke-filled factory making car batteries as her Chinese overlords whip her. A calm voiceover asks at the end, “Don’t let America slip through a spending hole into China’s waiting embrace. Vote Field.”
So, Kurt was in a difficult position. He was concerned about a Field presidency. But he was also concerned about keeping him from the presidency, worrying that this would empower Field and his renegade Republican movement, splintering the party and giving the election to the Democratic candidate, Duggans Montgomery. His calculations led him to believe that a Field presidency would be easier to control than a Field insurgency, and Kurt was even more uncomfortable with a Montgomery presidency. Not because the Vermont senator was much of a threat himself. Kurt and Duggans were in fact good friends. Had been since they shared midfield lacrosse duties at Chatham Burstweiller Prep in southwestern New Hampshire. And they still on occasion played paddle tennis when their schedules allowed and Kurt’s knee wasn’t acting up.
And having Susie on the inside made things much smoother and efficient. Without Susie in that position, things would likely get more complicated and circuitous. Overall, a Democratic president, whether he was friends with Kurt or not, represented a real threat to the balance Kurt was so intent on maintaining. And he also remembered what Duggans was like on the lacrosse field and with the ladies – impetuous and untrustworthy. Not traits that would serve Kurt well. So he put the ball in motion to give Field’s mega PAC preferential media exposure and to undermine the Montgomery campaign at all possible turns.
“You went to college, right?” the news host asked Fiona.
“I did.”
“And graduate school?”
“Correct.”
“Do you think you are better than me? I didn’t go to no fancy college.”
“I’m running on a platform of political inclusion, moderate rhetoric, and empirical decision-making methodologies, not divisiveness.”
Manny noticed Ruthie was now drooling all over his white T-shirt. He removed her head from the snuggle zone and turned her over, careful not to wake her.
“So you refuse to answer the question? I will ask you one more time: Do…you…think…you…are…better…than…me?”
“What does this have to do with–”
“Maybe I should ask in Spanish?” the reporter asked, referencing Fiona’s heritage – her mother was half-Mexican.
“That’s not–”
“We’re gonna cut to a commercial. When we come back, Fiona Mathis is gonna teach us all about her ‘book smarts.’” A roaring laugh track drowned out the host’s voice, and a flying graphic of an American flag swooped onto the screen followed by gunshots and cowboy hoots and hollers. Then a scorching red WTF graphic was seared into the screen by an animated branding iron. The WTF graphic smoked and sizzled like hot bacon as small streams of blood trickled down each letter. The screen then transitioned to a commercial for erectile dysfunction.
5.6
The next morning, Manny checked out of his motel, drove Ruthie home to her nearby squat in an abandoned McMansion and then drove to his storage facility in Res
ton. There he picked up an old computer that had been collecting dust for many years, brought it back to his new motel – the Bargain Barn – and set it on his metal desk.
The first thing he did was disable all the GPS tracking software on his computer. To be safe, he removed all the tracking hardware from the machine as well. When this was done and he was confident his Internet browsing could not be tracked, he researched the Mod Party to see what he could find out. One thing he learned was that the DCS “approved” their website and they were allowed to organize politically.
Since its creation, the DCS had disqualified a number of fringe political parties. Their decision to allow the Mods to participate in the upcoming presidential election was a token gesture to the American public, Manny realized, meant to show that the political process was still open to parties other than the Republicans or Democrats. In fact, Kurt was cognizant of the importance of maintaining a façade of democracy to placate the American public, and so he brought this plan to President Corcoran, asking him rhetorically, “What kind of problem could these nerds cause us?”
The Mod Party’s website was sparse, however, and it offered little information about their political platform. Manny was able to find the address for their headquarters, which turned out to be quite close to the Bargain Barn and Ruthie’s place of residence. He drove to the address, which looked like a large rundown school that hadn’t seen students in many years. The surrounding gated community looked like a set for a Western film reimagined for modern times. There was a gate that had not kept anyone out or in for many years, and most of the houses were oversized and under-completed. And there was the familiar site of stray garbage blowing in the wind like tumbleweed. This exurb looked and smelled similar to the last exurb Manny had visited – the Leftea’s headquarters.
The billboard above the gate that greeted entrants in this community proclaimed it to be a “thriving utopia of nature and camaraderie.” In reality it was a haven for squatters, runaways, and methamphetamine laboratories, aka a “slumburb,” a popular euphemism for these areas.
Manny drove his Ford Badger through a number of large potholes in the school parking lot and parked it in the sprawling and empty lot. The emptiness suggested he was in the wrong place, but this was the only address he had. So he proceeded inside.
When Manny entered the school, the familiar echo of the hallways transported him back to his childhood in Grand Rapids. He heard some activity and followed it down the hall, where he came upon a reception area and a young lady, college age, sitting at a desk. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Is this the office of Fiona Mathis?” Manny asked.
“Why? Are you shutting us down again?” the young lady responded.
“No. I’d like to help.”
“Help how?”
“However I can. Is she around? Can I speak with her?”
“She’s meeting with her advisors, and your name is…”
“Can I please speak with her?”
“Your name?”
“She will know me when she sees me.”
“Look, Grandpa, I don’t know what you’re trying to learn here, but why don’t you go back to your DCS overlords and tell them we’re complying with all of your regulations!” the receptionist said, her voice rising a few decibels to a barely contained scream.
“I’m not with the–” Manny was interrupted by an office door opening.
Fiona Mathis poked her head out of the doorway. “What’s happening?” she asked. Fiona looked at Manny, her eyes struggling to process what was in front of her. “Really?” she said to him. “Last person I ever expected to see here.”
“Hello, Fiona.”
“You know this guy?” the receptionist interjected.
“I do,” Fiona said. “Let’s take a walk,” she said to Manny, moving past him, unable to make eye contact. They were the same age and shared similarly competitive dispositions. Without the assistance of the soft focus of the fEN TV cameras, her features now looked hardened by exhaustion, Manny noted. Her slim and compact frame also seemed burdened, like a woman at the end of her rope.
Manny and Fiona walked down the decaying school hallway.
“So what brings you here? Last I heard you were screwing the now-head of the DCS,” Fiona said.
“She set me up,” Manny said.
“Seems to me you got out just in time. Probably took a big payout and dropped off the face of the earth just as things were really going down the toilet.”
“Well, the drop off the face of the earth part is right. They wanted me out because I wouldn’t play ball.”
“Kind of like how you did what it took to get me out of the way.”
“Not like that.”
“I would like to respond to that but I am having a hard time coming up with anything but: Bullsh–” Fiona barked, grimacing and cutting herself off before finishing her proclamation.
Up until that point, the conversation had been progressing at a relatively civil level, Manny thought. “Look,” Manny said, feeling the pressure of his untenable position, “what I did was wrong. It was legal. But it was wrong. I saw an opportunity to squash you, and I took it. I shouldn’t have buried your search results. I’m sorry. But this is different. What they did to me is different.”
“Is that your version of an apology?”
“It’s the truth. I know you’re still mad about PAYGO. And you should be.”
“Why are you here?” She tapped her toe like an exasperated mother and losing patience quickly.
“I want to help.”
“Me?”
“Your movement.”
“And I’m supposed to trust you?”
They walked past empty room after empty room, all filled with dilapidated desks with orphaned cords poking out of them, destined to never get plugged into the computer monitors they were designed for. They reached what was left of the cafeteria and sat down on the lone table remaining in this beige, cavernous windowless lunchroom. Manny once again went through the last six years of his life, this time as Fiona looked on in amusement. The thin smirk on her face was driven by a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.
“And then I realized that the Leftea party’s naïve brand of violent pacifism wasn’t for me.”
“And now you want to bankroll the Mods?” she asked.
“What else am I going to do with all my money? Consider it payment for all of your hard work.”
“Manny, as you can see, we could use some financial support. I’m pretty much tapped out of PAYGO money, in fact, but this is a long game we’re playing. Our goal is to plant the seed in the heads of a few people this time around, build up recognition of our message, improve the political discourse in this country, and fix this farce of a democratic society we live in. We don’t expect this to happen overnight. But it’s not easy these days. Third party operations are shut down if they get too uppity.”
“We can outsmart them. I know the ins and outs of furtl.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I have the money, and I have knowledge. We can get your message out and let the people decide.”
“You aren’t listening. I still don’t trust you.”
“I can win your trust.”
“If we get too big, and they figure out that you’re involved, we could be shooting ourselves in the foot.”
“I’ve been under the radar since I got back,” Manny said, unaware that his presence had in fact been picked up on a number of radars since his return. “You need me. You need my support.”
Fiona still looked unconvinced, but she looked less unconvinced than she had been ten minutes prior.
Manny looked her in the eye. “I think I understand you well enough to know that you want more than to just plant a seed. You want to win. Don’t make this about me and what happened between us in the past.”
“Manny, if you screw me again–”
“I won’t.”
Fiona cut the silence, which she had let hang
in the air, by getting up and walking away from Manny, her shoes creating a lonely ominous echo as she made her way back toward her office. After about ten steps, she stopped, turned around, and looked at Manny. “Why don’t we introduce you to my advisors and see what they have to say about all of this.”
5.7
When Manny and Fiona entered the office, a group of four people sitting in a circle stopped what they were doing and looked up. “Team, I would like to introduce you to–”
Frank Fine, a fidgety man who was sitting on a wobbly metal chair too small for his stocky middle-aged frame, raised his hand and interrupted Fiona. “Manny Kahn!”
“Okay, Frank,” Fiona said. “But please remember, we don’t raise our voices in these circles.” Looking at Manny, she explained, “Reasonable debate can only be had at reasonable decibel levels.”
“Apologies,” Frank all-but whispered. “Nice to meet you, Manny.”
“Well, Manny, this is my team. You have just met Frank Fine, anthropologist, and our resident expert on moral equivalency and the altruistic tendencies of the bonobo chimpanzees.”
“I’m excited to execute some of my academic research in a real world setting,” Frank said, nervously focusing on his fingernails. “My reciprocal behavioral modeling matrix is going to be a game-changer for American politics.” He looked up at the team, seeking their approval.
Fiona now stood next to a woman in her late 60s, small, slight, and stiff postured. “This is Dolores Stern, historian and author of the eight-volume retrospective on Harry Truman’s freshman year at college and her most recent book on the intersection of baseball and US foreign policy in Micronesia.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Manny,” Dolores said, her motionless head and unwavering body communicating an air of confidence and purpose.
Fiona walked over to a man who looked to Manny to be 80-years old, frail, bespectacled, and dressed entirely in tweed. “This is Sorenson Edmunds, political scientist, lawyer. Author of…”
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