Rick was having a hard time remembering how he'd gotten here. Sitting on one side of a square table, across from him the current Mayor, camera lights glaring, engaged in a debate in the Mayoral contest of this town he still planned to move from in a few weeks.

When the primary election returns were counted and it was reported that Rick handily had won the Democratic nomination, Rick had thought it was a joke. He hadn't run, of course, and earlier had told some apparently lunatic local party "elders" that he'd rather eat desiccated mulch than run for this or any other office.

But when the town newspaper reported his victory and local and even some state media had invaded his house -- the first time a write-in candidate had ever won a nomination without knowing he was even a possible candidate -- he understood it wasn't a joke, at least not the kind he'd initially assumed.

So, when the incumbent Mayor sitting across from him laced into Rick for his "sordid" financial dealings...his still "unearthed skeletons" concerning shady cattle future trades he'd made back in 1979, the help he'd gotten from his Arkansas political crony-friends and his initially lying about it, claiming he'd overnight turned his measly $1000 into $100,000 solely through his own research, the first time he'd ever traded futures, well, Rick, simply...nodded.

Until now the Mayor's campaign had seemed to center almost exclusively on the untold environmental hazards of Porta-Potties. (I.e., those invidious urinal deodorant bars too easily confused for sink hand-washing soap bars.) But the Mayor was steaming, his face a red & violet impressionistic mess.

Rick looked at his watch, then at his friend Fled in the audience. He had agreed to do this, sit through this spectacle once, until Fled and his political friends could find a real candidate. He did not agree to remain Fled's friend. The Mayor pounded his fist on the table, and said, "I deserve an answer, the town deserves an answer, not your usual I don't give-a-gosh-darn blank stare; that's not going to work here, Mister."

Rick sipped from his beer. Thank God he'd brought the Sierra Nevadas, he thought. He was impressed. The Mayor was almost certainly retarded. (Yea, Rick knew that was a politically incorrect term and it annoyed him that he knew it, but it was the only word that came to mind, the word that always came to his mind when thinking of the Mayor.) But here, right now, the Mayor was filled with passion and purpose. Rick had never heard the Mayor speak in such complete sentences.

The Mayor hammered on. "Let's have it, Mr.-I-don't-give-a...shit. What do you say?"

Rick looked at the wall clock; it was 10 minutes slower than Rick's watch, meaning there were 10 minutes left in the debate. He sighed. "I think you're confused, Mr. Mayor, I'm sorry but I've never traded or . . . "

"I am not confused. It's you, Sir, who finally have to answer for your years of evading and lying."

Rick shook his head slowly. He looked at Fled, wanted to leap from the table and strangle him. Fled gave him the thumbs up sign. "I believe the person you're referring to is Hillary Clinton, not me," Rick said. "I believe Hillary Clinton made cattle future trades, when her husband was Governor of Arkansas actually and when the person who made the trades for her was counsel to the largest company in the largest regulated industry in Arkansas. I believe Hillary originally claimed she made the trades entirely herself based on having read the Wall Street Journal. I believe Hillary later realized how ridiculous that sounded, claimed she "mis-remembered" and then stated in fact she had received a little help from the big friend at Tyson Foods, one of the largest contributors to Bill Clinton's Gubernatorial campaign."

The Mayor stared at Rick, silent a couple seconds. He then pounded the table again. "Exactly. You see? Exactly."...read more Rick and Fled