Motherfucking cocksucker motherfucking shit fucker! What am I doing? What am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m doing the best that I can. I know that’s all I can ask of myself. But is that good enough? Is my campaign doing any good? Is anybody paying attention? Is it hopeless to try and change things? This Trump guy’s a sign, right? Because if he isn’t… then nothing in this world makes any sense to me. I’m fucked. Maybe I should quit. Don’t quit. Maybe I should just fucking quit. Don’t fucking quit. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to fucking do anymore. Fucker. Fuck! Shit!
Mike Huckabee was sweating through his best suit as he paced back and forth between the window and plain white wall of the office. The room was furnished with a cheap plywood desk abutted by two foldout chairs and a gaudy orange couch. An older bespectacled woman in a black pant suit sat with her feet on the desk, staring impatiently at Mike. A worn, golden nameplate with the name “Sarah Coulter” sat in front of her.
“Look, I have a very important job for you people,” Mike said as he turned to face the woman. “I need you to… find something out.”
“What’s the issue, mister…” Sarah stared blankly at him.
“Mike, Mike Huckabee. I need to know… why I’m running for president.”
Sarah looked down from her glasses. “I assume in order to become president.”
“No, I know that,” Mike stopped and stared out the window. “But why do I do it? I tried in 2008 and that didn’t exactly work out, and I didn’t even try in 2012, but here I am, back for thirds. Why do I keep trying? I’m a nice guy, I ran a state for a while, I even know how to slap some sick licks on my bass, but I’m still miles behind Jeb! and… and…”
“No… nobody, doesn’t matter,” Mike turned his back to Sarah.
“Doesn’t exactly sound like this person doesn’t matter,” Sarah said as she took off her glasses and put them in the inner pocket of her pantsuit. “It’s important that you tell me ever bit of information that you can, Mike.”
“His… his name is Donald,” Mike stated, matter-of-factly. “ I don’t understand how he’s doing so well! He’s a billionaire who has never even ran for an elected office, and he is five times as popular as me! It isn’t fair! I should be president, not him! I… I…” Tears started to well in Mike’s eyes.
“Okay, I need you to calm down, Mike,” Sarah stood up from her desk and walked toward Mike. “Breathe slowly and deeply, okay? Now, I’m going to send you over to my associate. He might be able to help you understand this more, okay?” She patted him on the back.
“Okay,” Mike said as he snorted loudly and wiped his face. “Thank you so much for this.”
“No problem, it’s what we do,” Sarah pushed him toward the door to the next room. “Glenn! We’ve got a client!”
“Send him in!” a muffled voice shouted through the door.
The door opened to a similarly furnished office, set apart by a bookshelf populated by hundreds of books by dozens of political pundits from Sean Hannity to Bill Maher. A portly man with graying hair and a cheap suit leaned up again his desk.
“Hi, you must be Mike,” Glenn said. “My name is Glenn Walton. I assume you’re having some sort of… political crisis?”
“You could say that, Glenn,” Mike said. “I just… I just don’t know why I keep running for president when it is obvious that some other guy is gonna swoop in and win. Is there something wrong with me?”
“Now, Mikey, of course there isn’t anything wrong with you. You’re just a little confused, is all,” Glenn walked behind his desk and opened up on of his drawers. “Here, let me show you something.”
Glenn pulled out a large, ratty white sheet from his drawer and shook it out.
“This here represents the political spectrum,” Glenn said as he stretched the sheet out between his arms. “The political spectrum contains every person here, in China, Zimbabwe, everywhere. Everything is on this map.”
Glenn put his hand on to the upper right of the sheet, “Let’s say this is Mitt Romney, remember that guy?” He put his hand in the middle left, “This is the last guy that won,” on the far right, “this one is Hitler,” on the far left, “Stalin,” Glenn moved his hand wildly around the sheet, “Cruz, Santorum, Sanders, Clinton, Paul, the other Paul, even Trump and,” his hand rested somewhere in the upper right, “even you.”
“So… what you’re trying to say,” Mike scrunched under the strain of his intense thought until he reached a moment of enlightenment, “is that we’re all the same. Me, Trump, the Ricks, we’re doing this because everyone wants someone like them to run the country.”
Glenn cracked a smile and said, “Good, Mike. Now you’re getting it!”
“So if I’m just like Trump and Trump is just like me,” Mike’s voice began trailing off, “then… then I should act just like Donald Trump!”
“Wait, what? Mike, that isn’t what-”
“Yeah! What I act like leading up to the election doesn’t matter if I don’t win,” Mike’s voice grew more excited at the thought of the presidency, “I’ll just pull a bunch of moves like Donald and everyone will like me too!”
“Mike, that is a terrible-”
“Thank you so much, I’ll never forget what you two have done for me! I’m off to go think of some really tasteless remarks to say during my next speech, then I’ll show him! I’ll show them all!”
Mike scampered away from Glenn and past the astonished Sarah. He ran out the doors of the office, into the warm Little Rock sun and down the road to the White House.