by Paul Dueweke
* * *
After a sustained frenzy, the MC joined the three contestants amid hugs, thumbs up, and smiles. Everyone was exuberant, confident, and young. They played their roles, but not just to the sterile eye of the studio camera. Each could sense the invisible sea of neutered minds wedded to that camera. The MC gathered them together, and with a communal embrace, shouted into the collective ear of America, “One of these three contestants will be your next president!”
The scene erupted once more as the primeval ritual soared to another orgasm and then slowly retreated back toward the game show whence it had evolved. The breathless candidates were coaxed back to their booths where light and sound began to slow the pace, a signal that the serious business of picking a presidential candidate was about to begin.
Elliott’s eyes wandered from this media event to the people collected in his honor. His gaze stopped first on Martha, who clutched her purse, her fingers fondling it as they would have the multimedia controller in her living room. Every pair of eyes in the room, save one, was transfixed by the historic moment. Every face but one was upturned and bathed in the glow of feral allegiance.
The game-show camera zoomed in on Lizzie’s bronzed face, and the MC squeezed his face in beside her to nurture civic pride across America. “Ready, Lizzie?”
She rapped back, “Well don’t you know … I’m ready to go …” The band thumped it’s accompaniment. “Need a blow? … just flash the dough.”
The MC roared with delight and wagged his finger in front of the naughty guest. Lizzie grabbed his finger, swallowed it up to his knuckles, and sucked with her whole body in a convulsive rush, her eyes rolling heavenward. The band blasted ascending scales as the network computer broadcasted a sea of applause and whoops. In spite of the careful rehearsals, Tab nervously tried to interrupt this routine to steal the spotlight. The cameras ignored his gestures.
“Oh, Lizzie,” the MC groaned, “you just got my vote! If you’re elected president, can I be your first man?”
“That job was filled a lot of men ago, Rod, but you can sure be my next one.”
With a high five and an intro from the band, the MC stepped over to Tab, who leaped into the charged aura surrounding the MC. Tab wore a multi-colored sleeveless shirt with a black tie to accentuate his conservative appearance.
“Well, Tab, you look like you’re ready. Do you—”
“Hey, I do! I sure do! I’m like up with you, like scratching the score! I mean we’re together—but not thick, you get my mean.” He rocked side-to-side so far that the camera had to zoom out to keep him in the picture.
The MC thrust himself into the camera and gestured with his eyebrows. “Okay, cits, sounds like Tab has got himself … in the mooood!” Relinquishing the camera to Tab again, he said, “Tab! Is there anything else—”
“My people says … I’ll be the Pres … It’ll be toooo rad… in my White House … ah … in my White House … place.”
Despite the MC’s prodding, Tab didn’t respond to the teleprompter, which futilely flashed PAD. But the computer directed a world-class audience response to his patter. And viewers across America, and around the world, devoured it just the same.
“You’re my man, Tab!” the MC shouted into the din in mid high-five. “And you are up for the presidency!”
A hand grabbed Tab and held him back as the MC stepped to the last booth where Junkie stood, seemingly oblivious to the scene. His head was shaved save for one dread lock that curved around behind his head toward his chin and was interwoven with his beard. He claimed it gave him continuity with the universe and allowed him to recycle wisdom that most people let escape through their hair.
“No incertitude, Flash,” Junkie assured. He looked directly into the camera, raised and cocked his head, and blew a diminutive kiss. The slightest of grins diffused from his eyes to his cheeks as thunderous applause, whoops, and foot stomping radiated across the globe from the NBC transmitter and was echoed by countless millions of feasting fans.
“I’ve knocked balls,” Junkie said, “with tougher scabs; and I always—always—come up with my pectoral per - pen - dic - u - lar.” The airwaves erupted once more as Junkie gazed coolly into the camera and stroked his rope of hair as if asking for direction from its recycled wisdom.
“You have said it all, Junkie!” the MC testified with mock bows. “You have said it all! There’s no doubt! You’re king of the queers!” Once more, the airwaves resounded as Tab scowled and Lizzie applauded politely.
The camera slowly zoomed out during the applause to show all the contestants, each doing what their adoring fans had come to know and cherish them for. Each appealed to an element of the electorate in ways startlingly like their twentieth-century presidential ancestors.
Elliott’s eyes wandered out into the audience that had gathered in his honor. Nearly all of them were much younger than him. His gaze rambled from face to face, each upturned to the iridescent banquet, each feasting.
“Now it’s time for each candidate to pick your topic,” the MC said in a hushed tone. “And all you cits at home get ready to vote. Okay, now each candi, project your hologram for the cits to see.” The studio lights went out as three colorful holograms danced out of the contestant boxes and swirled together in a ring of brilliance before coming to rest. Each candidate gripped a signal wand and waited for the first round of play.