Threeway, ch. 12. Win. Lose. Repeat. (Pt. 1 of 1)
In which somebody is elected president. Horses not zebras. Whimpers not bangs. "Threeway" continues in serial form with a link to buy the book at the bottom of the post. To catch up on prior segments, start at the bottom of the blog. Enjoy. Tell your friends.
THREEWAY: A Short Novel for a Long Season
by
STEVEN LUBLINER
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogue, and descriptions are the author’s creations and are not to be taken as true. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All incidents depicting, suggesting, or referring to public figures or other historical persons are also fictionalized and are not to be taken as true.
Copyright © 2016 Steven S. Lubliner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1530971292
ISBN-13: 978-1530971299
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Personal Is Political i
1 Fillmore Pipp’s Boner 1
2 Big Mel Kriegman 16
3 Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb. 32
4 THE BROWN BAGGERS!! 40
5 Mittelpunkt 43
6 Mandy 51
7 Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. 66
8 Authenticity 75
9 Momentum 79
10 Brother Paul 88
11 Inevitability 98
12 Win. Lose. Repeat 108
Epilogue 112
Chapter 12: Win. Lose. Repeat.
When the tapes were released, American productivity hit lows not seen since the O.J. Simpson verdict. Only the press was at work. “Cockafeller Republican?!” blared the New York Post after the revelation about Kriegman. “Small Government Democrat?” smirked Fox News with a pixilated picture of Pipp’s privates in the background. Which candidate did the tapes hurt the most?
In one week America saw Mandy naked in motion, screen captured, and GIF’ed, approximately, conservatively, 33 billion times. The collective public shrug that followed could have been measured on the Richter Scale. A two-panel editorial cartoon summed it up.
The first panel showed a fat Uncle Sam at his computer, leaning forward and leering, a newspaper with the headline “Mandy Sex Tapes!” at his elbow next to a tissue box and a bag of chips. The second panel showed fat Uncle Sam slumped back in his chair with his pants undone, looking bored as he spoke to his computer. The caption read, “Next!”
Out of Brother Paul’s clutches, Mittelpunkt did not accept his dismissal. He repented of his cavalier attitude towards the tapes. Still presuming to speak for Mandy, still flogging the dead horse, Mittelpunkt promised refinements and embellishments on what the world had seen, wigs, merkins, and, of course, the whips. He promised town hall truth-or-dare web events where the populace could tell the president what to do, and she’d have to do it. He said Mandy’s new campaign slogan was “I’ll Take The Dare!” He promised a return to the 19th Century presidency’s open door policy of constituent service. He was the first person who could have been charged with stalking not the president but the presidency. Pimping it, too. It was for naught. Mandy naked was ancient history.
Mittelpunkt had one bullet left. Election Day comes down to turnout. He tweeted and posted and blasted that Brown Baggers should go to the polling places and speak their piece on the approaching streets and walkways. If the police showed up, they were to be handed the Supreme Court opinion. If the Brown Baggers’ message was protected political speech, it was not voter suppression. The faithful responded in droves.
Mittelpunkt forgot that protected speech is prohibited electioneering. The police were called. They came, as did the Sanitation Department. The messes were cleaned up, and the participating Brown Baggers were carted off before they had the chance to vote. With the popularity of absentee voting, Mittelpunkt kicked himself that he didn’t have the troops out weeks ago at post offices and around mail boxes.
Their core messages essentially the same, their differences only one of tone, Kriegman and Mandy split the standard Republican constituencies. Donaldson’s attention to detail won Kriegman the “Ballot That Confuses the Elderly” vote. Mandy scored with the “It Would Be Funny” crowd on both sides, most of whom would otherwise have stayed home.
Fillmore Pipp’s behavior diminished him. Women lost respect. Husbands were accused. Emasculated, humiliated worse than he ever was in his upward demotions, Pipp was reelected in a constitutional landslide, winning every state’s electoral votes. He could defer that job search four more years.
The losers made their congratulatory calls. Kriegman’s was gracious, giggly even, as his concession speech had been. He seemed to be finding solace in old habits. Perhaps, he later reflected in his hazy hotel room, they could even ease the pain of the tax bite.
Mandy’s call started out gracious but then veered wildly between angry, seductive, obscene, and apologetic. Mostly apologetic. Her public concession speech, however, was short and sweet as she finally squatted low and flew one last, long, double bird.
Pipp spoke at his inauguration about continuity and change. He said something about phoenixes. At the Inaugural Ball, he danced with his vice president, who would not look him in the eye.
“Come on,” he said, lifting up her chin. “Let’s go home. Let’s make love. Let’s govern.” She had two surprises for him.
Sex was out. The Republicans now controlled Congress. If Pipp had a heart attack, died, and smothered her, the new Republican Speaker of the House would become president. They had worked too hard to let that happen.
Vice President Pipp also intended to live at the official residence at the U.S. Naval Observatory. The movers met her at the White House after the ball. Ira Stengel helped her get settled.
Pipp went home to the lonely business of governance. He accomplished some things during his second term. He failed to accomplish others.
--
No matter how large the field of candidates, the election of a president is an angry tango. The process plays the man and leads. The people play the woman and follow. The woman must not look the man in the eye. Complicit, compliant, the people obey.
When Pipp was elected, the dance should have ended. In a friendly dance, the process would have sent the people out to spin dramatically in the center of the floor and then come happily, giddily to a stop. As the band took five, the dancers would have fanned themselves, grabbed some punch, and gone back to their seats to chat amiably before getting their coats and going home to their lives.
Instead, just before the point of release, the fingers on both dancers curled and tensed. The process drew the people back in tight. The band played on. The dance never stops.
Buy Threeway.
Read the review on Kirkus Reviews.
Read an article about the author.
Review Threeway on Goodreads.
Buy A Child's Christmas in Queens.
THREEWAY: A Short Novel for a Long Season
by
STEVEN LUBLINER
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, dialogue, and descriptions are the author’s creations and are not to be taken as true. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All incidents depicting, suggesting, or referring to public figures or other historical persons are also fictionalized and are not to be taken as true.
Copyright © 2016 Steven S. Lubliner
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1530971292
ISBN-13: 978-1530971299
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Personal Is Political i
1 Fillmore Pipp’s Boner 1
2 Big Mel Kriegman 16
3 Hi and Bye, Connie and Herb. 32
4 THE BROWN BAGGERS!! 40
5 Mittelpunkt 43
6 Mandy 51
7 Mandy In. Mandy Out. Mandy In. 66
8 Authenticity 75
9 Momentum 79
10 Brother Paul 88
11 Inevitability 98
12 Win. Lose. Repeat 108
Epilogue 112
Chapter 12: Win. Lose. Repeat.
When the tapes were released, American productivity hit lows not seen since the O.J. Simpson verdict. Only the press was at work. “Cockafeller Republican?!” blared the New York Post after the revelation about Kriegman. “Small Government Democrat?” smirked Fox News with a pixilated picture of Pipp’s privates in the background. Which candidate did the tapes hurt the most?
In one week America saw Mandy naked in motion, screen captured, and GIF’ed, approximately, conservatively, 33 billion times. The collective public shrug that followed could have been measured on the Richter Scale. A two-panel editorial cartoon summed it up.
The first panel showed a fat Uncle Sam at his computer, leaning forward and leering, a newspaper with the headline “Mandy Sex Tapes!” at his elbow next to a tissue box and a bag of chips. The second panel showed fat Uncle Sam slumped back in his chair with his pants undone, looking bored as he spoke to his computer. The caption read, “Next!”
Out of Brother Paul’s clutches, Mittelpunkt did not accept his dismissal. He repented of his cavalier attitude towards the tapes. Still presuming to speak for Mandy, still flogging the dead horse, Mittelpunkt promised refinements and embellishments on what the world had seen, wigs, merkins, and, of course, the whips. He promised town hall truth-or-dare web events where the populace could tell the president what to do, and she’d have to do it. He said Mandy’s new campaign slogan was “I’ll Take The Dare!” He promised a return to the 19th Century presidency’s open door policy of constituent service. He was the first person who could have been charged with stalking not the president but the presidency. Pimping it, too. It was for naught. Mandy naked was ancient history.
Mittelpunkt had one bullet left. Election Day comes down to turnout. He tweeted and posted and blasted that Brown Baggers should go to the polling places and speak their piece on the approaching streets and walkways. If the police showed up, they were to be handed the Supreme Court opinion. If the Brown Baggers’ message was protected political speech, it was not voter suppression. The faithful responded in droves.
Mittelpunkt forgot that protected speech is prohibited electioneering. The police were called. They came, as did the Sanitation Department. The messes were cleaned up, and the participating Brown Baggers were carted off before they had the chance to vote. With the popularity of absentee voting, Mittelpunkt kicked himself that he didn’t have the troops out weeks ago at post offices and around mail boxes.
Their core messages essentially the same, their differences only one of tone, Kriegman and Mandy split the standard Republican constituencies. Donaldson’s attention to detail won Kriegman the “Ballot That Confuses the Elderly” vote. Mandy scored with the “It Would Be Funny” crowd on both sides, most of whom would otherwise have stayed home.
Fillmore Pipp’s behavior diminished him. Women lost respect. Husbands were accused. Emasculated, humiliated worse than he ever was in his upward demotions, Pipp was reelected in a constitutional landslide, winning every state’s electoral votes. He could defer that job search four more years.
The losers made their congratulatory calls. Kriegman’s was gracious, giggly even, as his concession speech had been. He seemed to be finding solace in old habits. Perhaps, he later reflected in his hazy hotel room, they could even ease the pain of the tax bite.
Mandy’s call started out gracious but then veered wildly between angry, seductive, obscene, and apologetic. Mostly apologetic. Her public concession speech, however, was short and sweet as she finally squatted low and flew one last, long, double bird.
Pipp spoke at his inauguration about continuity and change. He said something about phoenixes. At the Inaugural Ball, he danced with his vice president, who would not look him in the eye.
“Come on,” he said, lifting up her chin. “Let’s go home. Let’s make love. Let’s govern.” She had two surprises for him.
Sex was out. The Republicans now controlled Congress. If Pipp had a heart attack, died, and smothered her, the new Republican Speaker of the House would become president. They had worked too hard to let that happen.
Vice President Pipp also intended to live at the official residence at the U.S. Naval Observatory. The movers met her at the White House after the ball. Ira Stengel helped her get settled.
Pipp went home to the lonely business of governance. He accomplished some things during his second term. He failed to accomplish others.
--
No matter how large the field of candidates, the election of a president is an angry tango. The process plays the man and leads. The people play the woman and follow. The woman must not look the man in the eye. Complicit, compliant, the people obey.
When Pipp was elected, the dance should have ended. In a friendly dance, the process would have sent the people out to spin dramatically in the center of the floor and then come happily, giddily to a stop. As the band took five, the dancers would have fanned themselves, grabbed some punch, and gone back to their seats to chat amiably before getting their coats and going home to their lives.
Instead, just before the point of release, the fingers on both dancers curled and tensed. The process drew the people back in tight. The band played on. The dance never stops.
Buy Threeway.
Read the review on Kirkus Reviews.
Read an article about the author.
Review Threeway on Goodreads.
Buy A Child's Christmas in Queens.
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