1. Core Vetting

Marybeth Fredrickson opened the front door. Two men stood on the porch.

“If you two are like Mormons or something, I’m all set,” Marybeth said.

The younger of the two men looked down, inspecting his attire: a store-bought, ill-fitting brown suit. The older of the two, wearing an impeccably tailored blue Brioni, flashed a grin, saying, “Are you Marybeth Fredrickson?”

“I am.”

“Your mother was Irene Fredrickson?”

Marybeth paused a moment, biting her lip. “She was,” she said.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” the Brioni suit said.

“Very sorry,” the brown suit muttered in unison with his partner’s sentiment.

“Okay,” Marybeth said. “Thank you?”

“We’d like to have a word with you about some loose ends in your mother’s affairs. May we come in?”

“And who are you exactly?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course. How rude of me. I am Slick Ives, and this is Irving Sinclair.”

“Actually, it’s Ernest,” the younger man said.

“We are with the P.P.F.L.A.P,” Ives said.

“The PP…what?”

“F.L.A.P.,” Ives said.

“PP-flap?”

“Ha. No. The P.P.F.L.A.P. Or, I suppose you could call it PP-flap if you so wish,” Ives added with his bright, toothy grin. “Should we start calling it PP-flap, Irv?”

“Nest…Er-nest,” Ernest said. “And probably not.”

Ives raised his eyebrows.

Ernest said, “But, sure, you could call it PP-flap.”

“Perfect,” Ives grinned. “PP-flap it is.”

“Are you, like, with the government or something?” Marybeth said.

“Not quite,” Ives said. “In fact, we are what you might call a government watchdog group. Kind of. Essentially, we watch the government and try to influence them to align more with the people’s wishes. In fact, the first P in PP-flap is for People.”

“What do the other letters stand for?” Marybeth said.

While Ives said, “That’s not important right now,” Ernest recited, “People’s Patriotic Freedoms League for American Patriots.”

“What was that?” Marybeth said.

“Again, that’s not important,” Ives said. “At the moment, anyway. We, of course, can get to that later.”

“Is your name really Slick?” Marybeth said.

Ives smiled again, saying, “That it is. It turns out you and I both had mothers who maybe walked the edges of alternative culture. My mother named me after her favorite singer. Had I been a girl, I at least would have had the more mainstream name of Grace.”

Both Ives and Marybeth chuckled. Ernest, who had been watching people walking along Marybeth’s street, snapped his head back to the conversation. He then looked up as if trying to calculate a bill in his head.

Ives said, “It seems my mother fell victim to the counterculture drug scene of San Francisco. Yours…” he left the statement unfinished.

“What?” Marybeth said.

“We really should discuss this inside,” Ives said.

Marybeth opened the front screen and let the men inside. “Please sit down,” she said, gesturing to the couch. “Can I get you anything?”

“Oh, no thank you,” Ives said, sitting down on the couch.

“I could use a coff—” Ernest said, but stopped as he and his partner regarded each other. “I’m all set,” Ernest said, sitting beside Ives.

Marybeth sat in a chair perpendicular to the couch, causing the men, sitting upright with hands on knees, to turn their heads in unison toward her like chicks for a feeding.

“My mother was too young to be part of the counterculture scene in San Francisco,” Marybeth said.

Ives grinned, “True,” he said, his hands sliding to hang between his knees as he eased into a position more comfortable. “But there are other things that run counter to our culture. In fact, you could say we have been fighting a battle to save our culture since that first gunshot in Lexington.”

“Was there a mass shooting in Kentucky today?” Marybeth said.

“No. Lexington and Concord?”

“New Hampshire?”

Ives grinned. “Ha, no. Massachusetts. The shot heard round the world. The beginning of the fight for our fine culture.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I forgot, sorry,” Marybeth said.

“Well, it’s understandable,” Ives said. “You’re from a time when school systems weren’t required to teach such victories of American patriotism.”

“So, what exactly is it about?” Marybeth said.

“Lexington and Concord?” Ives said.

“No. Why are you here in my living room? Something about my mother?”

Ives flashed his grin. “Oh, of course. I apologize. Yes. Again, my condolences.”

“Sorry for your loss,” Ernest said, the words synchronized with Ives’s condolence.

“Thank you.”

“May I ask,” Ives said, “did your mother have the same cancer as your father?”

“My father? How do you…what is this about?”

“Would that matter?” Ernest asked Ives suddenly, as if breaking from deep thought. “You know, for our…purpose…?” His voice trailed off as Ives stared at him again.

“Purpose?” Marybeth said. “What is going on here?”

“I’m sorry,” Ives said. “It seems my friend, here, has jumped the gun a little. You’ll have to excuse him; he’s new to this. The question about your father was benign enough. It was a simple inquiry of genetic disposition to illnesses.”

“Genetic disp…what is this? Seriously, what is going on?”

Ives put his hands out, saying, “Again, sorry, I can understand your confusion. I would have liked to have eased a little better into this.” He glanced at Ernest, who looked at his hands folded in his lap. Ives said, “Ms. Fredrickson, are you aware of your brother?”

“Brother?”

“Or sister,” Ernest said. “At this point we don’t know. But hopefully brother.”

“What?” Marybeth said.

Ives said, “Look, you were very young when your father died; there are things that aren’t always discussed with a child.”

Ernest said, “My parents told me my dog Biffy ran away, when really—”

Ives bent his head and scratched his forehead, while staring at his partner.

“Never mind,” Ernest said.

“The point is,” Ives said, his smile returning in a sudden fireworks display, “when your father became sick, your parents thought—perhaps a little naively in retrospect—that their union in another child would be the best legacy for your father. So they took the scientific route, creating a viable embryo and freezing it, should the day ever come where your mother wanted another child. Turns out, that day never came.”

“How do you—? Did you know my parents?”

“Oh, God no, of course not.”

“Then how do you know all of this?”

“Well, there are files and paperwork on this type of thing…and actually, believe it or not, the doctor who performed the procedure is still practicing.”

“The doctor? Files? Aren’t there laws against accessing people’s medical information?”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” Ernest said. “I once tried to get information—”

With another stern look from Ives, Ernest stopped.

Ives then said to Marybeth, “As Irving said—”

“Ernest.”

“—the answer is yes, under HIPAA, a person’s medical information is to be kept private. But with the ratification of the 31st Amendment, there are now a few exceptions, this being one of them.”

“The 31st…?”

“You’re not familiar with the 31st Amendment?”

“Well, there’s been so many of them lately,” Marybeth said. “I’ve—”

“It’s The Personhood Act,” Ernest said.

“Oh,” Marybeth said.

“So you have heard of it?” Ives said.

“Of course I have.”

Ives said, “Under the Personhood Act, all frozen embryos are now considered viable U.S. citizens, and are required to be designated a guardian.”

“You want me to be declared guardian of my parents’ unborn embryo? What does that mean?”

“Well for most people it would require bringing the embryo to term.”

“What? You’re going to force me to give birth to my brother?”

“Or sister,” Ernest said. “But hopefully brother.”

Ives said. “We prefer the term required rather than forced, and it doesn’t have to be you; it could be a surrogate, but we’d rather it be you for a higher likelihood of the embryo attaching; I mean, you do have the same genetic makeup as your mother so….”

“This is insane.”

“No, technically it is the law, but you are in an incredible amount of luck—given the uniqueness of this situation—because we are willing to pay you a very substantial amount for the pregnancy. Should you give birth that is.”

“You’re buying IVF babies?”

“Just yours,” Ernest said.

“Whoa, hold on a minute,” Ives said. “We are not buying any babies because that would be highly illegal. You would still be the technical parent of the child. We would just be the caregivers.”

“Technically more its staff,” Ernest said.

“What? Staff?”

“Irv—”

“Ernest.”

“—here, is again getting a little ahead of himself. But I suppose we would technically be your baby’s staff.”

“This makes—”

Ives said, “Look, Ms. Fredrickson, we intend for your son—”

“Brother,” Ernest said. “Or sister. But hopefully brother.”

“—to be the next president of the United States.”

“You want to groom my brother—”

“Or sister.”

“—to be president?”

“Please, there will be no grooming,” Ives said. “We are strictly avoiding that term.”

“But how will you be its staff? You’ll be old, or dead, by the time he—“

“Or she.”

“—is old enough…wait, what do you mean next president?”

“Turns out, babies poll incredibly high,” Ernest said.

“For president?” Marybeth said.

“Well, for anything,” Ernest said.

“You want my baby—”

“Your sibling,” Ernest said.

“—to be president? As a baby? How can—isn’t there an age requirement?”

“Well that’s where the uniqueness of your situation comes in,” Ives said. “You see, given that the 31st  Amendment bestows personhood at the moment of conception, and said conception happened so long ago in your parents’ case, technically your brother—”

“Or sister. But hopefully brother.”

“—is 35 years old, which is the required age for the presidency.”

“You’re saying my unborn brother—or sister—is old enough to vote?”

“And drink, and rent a car, and…” Ernest said, but then ducked his head after another look from Ives.

“But how can a baby run the country?”

Ives said, “Well, I mean, come on, the president is more of a figurehead, really. We’ve had plenty of presidents with absolutely no concept of what is going on. We’ve had some who nap all day, watch television….”

“Throw up on themselves,” Ernest added.

“The key is, your brother…or sister, but hopefully brother, will—”

“Why do you keep saying ‘hopefully brother?’”

“A female candidate doesn’t poll well,” Ernest said.

Ives said, “The key is, your sibling will be the president of the United States, and that can be very beneficial to many, many people, especially its mother.”

“Sister,” Ernest said.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Marybeth said.

“Can’t or won’t?” Ives said. “Because if it’s won’t, well, we can technically— legally—make you. But if it’s can’t, that means perhaps there’s some negotiating to be done?”

“Is it an ethical problem for you?” Ernest said.

“No,” Marybeth said. “It’s just an incredibly stupid idea.”

“Stupid we can work with,” Ives said. “Some of the stupidest ideas have worked out great. Like 8 figures great.”

“Are you saying I could be looking at being paid 8 figures for this?” Marybeth said.

“At minimum,” Ives said.

“I think stupid can work,” Marybeth said. “When do we start?”

“Well sooner than later, if we’re to make the Iowa Caucus,” Ives said.

“I’ll get my bag,” Marybeth said.

2. Zero Hour

After Marybeth checked in at the front desk, she, Ives, and Ernest glanced around the waiting room for a spot to sit. Ernest had the air of a Sherpa, weighted down with both his and Ives’s laptop bags, a portfolio bag crammed with files and documents, and Marybeth’s belongings.

Never looking up from his phone, Ives told Ernest, “Why don’t you make camp down there; looks like a coffee table is open.”

Ernest regarded the waiting room and spotted a one-foot by one-foot end table. “That thing? I don’t think that’s a coffee table.”

“That’s right,” Ives said, still engrossed in his phone, “the coffee table is good.”

“Does he mean that thing?” Ernest said to Marybeth, pointing at the end table.

She shrugged. “Maybe that’s a coffee table where he comes from?”

“I don’t think I could even fit a coffee on it,” Ernest said.

Ives glanced up from his phone, did a quick double take, and said to Ernest, “Why aren’t you set up yet? We have a lot to do.” He then went back to his phone.

Ernest looked at the table, then at Marybeth.

She shrugged, and Ernest wandered off toward the table.

“You know—” Marybeth said.

“Hold on; I need to answer this,” Ives said.

“I can—” Marybeth said.

Ives waved her off and put the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” he said. “No,” he said, and hung up. “Sorry, that was an important call,” he said to Marybeth. “Did you say something?”

“You know,” she said, “if you’re busy, one of your staffers could have just brought me to this appointment like all the other appointments. And the blood tests. And all the shots. And more shots. I mean, Ernest could have done this alone.”

“Who’s Ernest?”

“Ernest?” she said. “That guy…” she pointed to the other side of the waiting room. “The one setting up basecamp on a one by one coffee table right now.”

“I thought his name was Irving…” Ives said. He shook his head and said, “And this isn’t just any appointment. This is it. This is zero hour.”

“Zero Hour?”

“The event,” he said. “From this point forward, I am all eyes on the asset.”

“The asset?”

“You know what I mean.”

“So, are you like moving in? Because it’s been a while since I’ve shared a house with a man,” Marybeth said. “I’m not sure I’m ready for the toilet seat to be left up all the time again.”

“Well, no…I didn’t mean…I’m not—”

“Ms. Fredrickson?” a nurse called from a doorway.

“Wish me luck,” Marybeth said to Ives.

“Wish you luck? Oh no, I’m coming in there. Like I said, eyes on the asset.”

“Is he allowed to come?” Marybeth said to the nurse.

“Is he the father?” the nurse said.

“In a roundabout way,” Marybeth said.

“Ah,” the nurse said, “I’ve got one of those at home. Sure, he can come.”

“Perfect,” Ives said. “After you.” He gestured Marybeth ahead of him.

“What about Ernest?”

“Who?”

“Ernest,” Marybeth said, pointing at the staffer still struggling to fit everything on the tiny table.

“Oh. He’ll be fine,” Ives said, waving his hand as if dismissing a fly, and they followed the nurse through the door.

They entered another room filled with hospital beds hidden away in curtained partitions.

The nurse handed Marybeth a folded bundle of clothing and said, “Mom, you can go in that door and get changed. Opening of the garment should be in back.”

“Thank you,” Marybeth said and entered the dressing room door.

The nurse turned to Ives, saying, “And you…roundabout Dad, you can sit beside that bed right there and wait for Mom.”

“Which bed?” Ives said, not looking up from his phone.

The nurse whistled softly and waved her hand to get Ives’s full attention.

He looked up.

“Ah, there you are. That bed,” she pointed, “right there.”

“Okay,” he said, going back to the phone.

The nurse said, “And we ask that you refrain from using cellphones in this area, for privacy purposes.”

“It’s okay,” Ives said, “I’m not worried about privacy.”

“Not your privacy,” she said. “Everyone else’s.”

“I don’t see anyone else here.”

“More will be arriving soon enough.”

Ives held up his phone, saying, “But I need to do this; it’s really important.”

“Are you creating life and nurturing a healthy future population ensuring the success of humanity?” the nurse said.

“Um…I don’t think so?”

“Then it’s not that important in regards to this place. I can find a safe kiosk in which to put your phone, if you wish?”

Ives, looking as if in physical pain, slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. He pointed at one of the curtained partitions. “That bed?”

“That one,” the nurse said, pointing at the bed she’d previously pointed to.

“Okay,” Ives said, shuffling toward the seat beside the bed.

“You’re welcome,” the nurse said, walking away.

“Thank you,” Ives called after her.

Ives sat in the chair and regarded the different beds and curtains around the room, his hand tapping his thigh. In his jacket pocket, his phone was buzzing notifications like a heartbeat. He watched the nurse’s station, watching Marybeth’s nurse in particular, who continually shot seemingly clairvoyant, admonishing glares his way. When she left the area, he pulled the phone from his pocket.

Marybeth emerged from the dressing room wearing a hospital gown and carrying her clothes and a package of plastic-wrapped slippers. She dropped the slippers and, clamping the gown’s rear opening shut, turned to bend over to pick the package up. Ives didn’t notice her struggling to pick up the slippers with the hand holding her clothes; his focus was on the way her clamped hand on the gown accentuated her round rear end.

“Hey,” Marybeth called, “can you try to keep your eyes off my asset and give me a hand with this thing?”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Ives said, hopping up to help her.

He picked up the slippers, and as he stood up, Marybeth’s nurse passed, leading a young couple to another bed. Ives ten-hutted like a soldier as the nurse eyed him suspiciously. Marybeth then scurried to the bed, still holding the back of her gown shut, and Ives returned to the chair.

“You don’t want these things?” Ives said, holding up the slippers.

“I like my lucky socks,” Marybeth said, wiggling her toes in a pair of brown shag socks.

“Looks like you grew a couple of chinchillas out of your calves.”

“They’re cozy.”

“Just be careful poachers don’t steal you for a fur coat.”

“I’m not worried, I’d have the might of PP-flap to get me back.” In a sing-song voice she added, “You’d have to save me.”

“Yeah, I suppose we’d have to.”

“I didn’t say we, I said you.”

“Guess I’d have to swing in crowing my Tarzan call.”

“Something tells me you’d go and get yourself poached.”

“You don’t think I have what it takes to save you?” Ives said.

“No.”

Ives raised his eyebrows. “I can hold my own,” he said.

“I think you’d crumble like a building implosion.”

“I don’t crumble. I’ve been in plenty of high-stakes situations. You do realize what I do, right?”

“Oh, I don’t doubt you can handle pressure-cooker situations when it involves making decisions about ruining the country and its population’s lives; I’m guessing you’re great at that. I’m saying you strike me as kind of a squeamish dandy. First sign of blood and you’ll be out like a light.”

“It might be a mistake to underestimate me too much,” Ives said as the roundabout nurse arrived, carrying another bundle of clothing.

She held her free hand out to Ives, palm up.

“What?” Ives said to her. He then followed her gaze to the phone in his hand. “Shit,” he said. He handed her the phone.

“That was easy,” the nurse said.

“I’ve seen that look on many a teacher’s face back in middle school,” Ives said.

The nurse said to Marybeth, “Is roundabout dad going in with you?”

“No,” Marybeth said.

“Yes,” Ives said.

“Then yes,” Marybeth said. “I forgot he has to keep an eye on my asset.”

“I—” Ives said.

“No need to explain,” the nurse said, “Like I said, I have one at home.” She thrust the bundle of clothing at Ives. “Put these on over your clothing,” she said.

Ives took a set of thin, gauzy scrubs and booties and began putting them on as the nurse took Marybeth’s vitals.

When the nurse was done, and Ives was donned in his surgeon cosplay, the nurse said, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Marybeth said. “As they say in Alabama, let’s get my brother in my hooch.”

“I’m not sure I want to know what that means,” the nurse said, walking off and calling over her shoulder, “Follow me.”

Ives and Marybeth followed the nurse, Ives saying, “Are you going to, like, want me to hold your hand or something during this thing?”

“No,” Marybeth said, but then added, “just to stroke my hair and tell me you love me.”

“Huh?”

“Just sit there and stay out of the way,” Marybeth said.

“Stay out of the way?” Ives said. “What do you think I’m going to do in there?

“I have no idea, but knowing the little I know about you, you’ll try to take charge in some way.”

“You sure do think you know a lot about me.”

“I know your type,” Marybeth said as they walked into the operating room.

Marybeth hoisted herself onto the bed and slid her feet into the stirrups. The doctor positioned herself between Marybeth’s legs. Ives hovered around over the doctor’s shoulder.

The doctor said, “Dad might be more comfortable sitting beside Mom?”

“I’m not Dad, and if you don’t mind, doc, I need to make sure this is done on the up and up,” Ives said. “I’m nurturing a healthy future, ensuring the success of our country.”

“The healthy future of—? Never mind,” the doctor said. She shrugged, saying, “Suit yourself,” as she inserted a speculum.

Marybeth said, “Little breezy down there.” She then said in Ives’s direction, “No jokes from you about wind tunnels or something?”

There was no answer.

She looked at Ives. His eyes were wide as he caught a sight of all of her. His face scrunched up like a crumpled ball of paper, then it went slack, and he fell in a heap on the floor.

When he came to, he was lying in the hospital bed Marybeth had earlier vacated. He looked down at himself, seeing he was still wearing the gauzy scrubs, and then he noticed the nurse and Marybeth standing beside him.

“Hey, look, it’s come-roundabout dad,” the nurse said.

“What happened?” Ives said.

Marybeth said, “You insisted on keeping an eye on the asset and ended up with an eyeful of my PP-flap.”

“Then what?” Ives said.

She shrugged. “You crumbled like a building implosion.”

“I did?” Ives said.

“Yup.”

“I must have been dehydrated or something,” Ives said. “To pass out like that.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it,” the nurse said.

“What else could it be?” Ives said.

“Being a man might have had something to do with it?” the nurse said.

“What does that mean?” Ives said.

“That you’re a man?” the nurse said.

“And…?”

“And men always pass out if they peek. It’s why they had the sheet over her legs in the first place. Beyond the sheet is no man’s land.”

“How about the procedure?” Ives said. “Was it a success?”

“I feel good,” Marybeth said.

“What about the asset? Was it successful?”

“We won’t know for a while,” Marybeth said.

“Wait, are you naming your child The Asset or something?” the nurse said.

“Would you vote for someone named The Asset?” Ives asked her.

“Vote? Like for office?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Then no,” Ives said.

“You know,” the nurse said, “I sometimes like to imagine, down the line, how patients made out with their kids. But you two,” She shook her head, “I don’t think I want to ever know.” She walked away.

“Wow, that was really mean,” Ives said.

Marybeth shrugged and then said, “Think you can swing out of here on your own, Tarzan, or should we get a wheelchair for you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ives said, standing slowly from the bed. “And remind me to never use the term PP-flap again. In fact, let’s never speak of this day again.”

Marybeth helped him to his feet. “Sure thing,” she said. “I can keep a secret.”

“Good,” Ives said.

“Until I need it,” she said, releasing his arm and walking off toward the exit sign.

3. Proud Parents…er, Staff

Marybeth appeared in the doorway of Ives’s office.

Ives, sitting at his desk, looked up from his phone. Noticing the sly smile on her face, he said, “Well?”

She flashed the white stick like a conductor with a baton. “I’m pregnant,” she squealed.

Ives popped out of his chair. “Really?” he said, his voice taking on a slight squeal of its own.

Marybeth waved the stick again. “Really.”

They darted toward each other, meeting in the middle of the office, and hugged, their hands pressing hard into each other’s backs, tightening the embrace.

Ives then held Marybeth by her shoulders at arms length, saying, “This is amazing.”

“I know; I’m going to have a baby.”

“You’re one hundred percent positive, right?”

“Yes. Look.” Marybeth handed him the stick. “Two lines means pregnant.”

“Either that or you have Covid.”

“This is definitely a pregnancy test. I peed all over the freaking thing.”

Ives let go of the stick, and it dropped onto the carpet. He said, “I need to get you a doctor’s appointment.” He headed back to his desk, grabbing his phone. “Let’s be positive about this.”

“Okay,” Marybeth said.

“And I need to contact Manicker.”

“Mankiller? What is that?”

“Oh, and the insurance company. We need to restructure that whole thing. No need to pay those kind of premiums now that the pregnancy has taken.”

“Insurance? Premiums?” Marybeth said.

“Well, yeah,” Ives said. “The odds of successfully delivering a baby drastically go up after pregnancy.”

“Well, yeah, obviously. But…”

“I mean the odds for a miscarriage or D and C are still high, but they’re better than not getting pregnant at all. So the premiums will come down.”

“But…” Marybeth shook her head and looked at the stick on the floor.

“What aren’t you getting?” Ives said.

“The insurance part,” Marybeth said.

“I need to explain insurance to you?”

“This particular insurance, yeah,” Marybeth said, folding her arms and cocking her hip.

“Well, as I said,” Ives said, returning to his desk, “the odds of a viable pregnancy with IVF are pretty low, especially with only one embryo, and that embryo was freaking thirty-five years old.”

“All right,” Marybeth said in a tone drenched in skepticism.

“Well, this is a big operation here.” Ives waved his arms around him. “This all costs money.”

“And?”

“And, what?” Ives said. “We needed an insurance policy in case this whole thing didn’t pan out.”

“You took out insurance on my getting pregnant?”

“Of course we did. And now I have to change it to you giving birth.” He snapped his fingers. “Shit, I need to remember to add stipulations regarding the baby’s health and mental acuity.”

“So if I lose this baby, you all get paid?”

“Of course,” Ives said. He sat in his chair and scavenged around for one of the notes written on an array of paper scraps scattered about his desk. “What do you think we’re all doing here? If there is no baby, I still have to pay all these staffers who have been shuttling you back and forth to all your appointments.”

“So you’re looking to profit off me losing my child?”

“Technically not your child.”

“It is now.”

“Here it is,” Ives said, snatching a piece of paper from his desk. “Look,” he said to Marybeth, “you assured us this wouldn’t be a problem. We are paying you for this.”

“Not yet. Do I get an insurance policy too?”

“You can take one out if you want, but,” he scrunched his face, “that’s weird, a mother taking one out on her own child?”

“Not my child, remember?”

“Well…yeah…look, you’ll be compensated should you lose the baby,” Ives said.

“Eight zeroes, like you said?” Marybeth said.

“I never said eight zeroes, that’s ridiculous.”

“You’re changing the deal now?”

“No. One: I said eight figures. Big difference. And I also said the deal hinged on giving birth to a healthy, viable candidate.”

“Viable meaning?”

“Not retarded,” Ives said, and then added, “or a girl.”

“What?” Marybeth squeaked.

“Okay, we can maybe work with a girl, but retarded….”

“You can’t use that word,” Marybeth said.

“Girl?”

“Retarded.”

“Really? It’s such a good word though.”

“What happens if the baby is re—mentally challenged?”

“Mentally challenged? That sounds worse than retarded,” Ives said.

“Will you focus on the conversation? What happens if the candidate is born unviable for the presidency?”

“Like retarded?” Ives said.

“For fuck’s sake, yes.”

“Then we can’t move forward, and I use the insurance money to compensate the staff. And you,” he said, waving his hand in her direction.

“But who gets the baby?”

“The baby goes with the mother.”

“Its mother is dead, remember?” Marybeth said.

Ives scrunched up his face, took a breath, and said, “Then the baby goes with its closest living relative.”

“Its sister.”

“That’s right.”

“And then I need to figure out how to raise a mentally challenged child?”

“See? That sounds so cruel. Mentally challenged?”

“And you will pay for me to care for that child?”

“Well, no. The insurance money basically only covers the staff’s time up to birth. After that, we need campaign donations. Which we won’t have if it is mentally challenged.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know, who came up with that term? Like using your brain is challenging? Sounds weird. And cruel.”

“No, the concept, not the term.”

“The concept? Well, you need to talk to God about the concept.”

“No. The concept of leaving me out to dry after getting me pregnant.”

“Getting you pregnant? You’re acting like I knocked you up. I’m not the thing’s father.”

“You might not be the thing’s father, but you did knock me up.”

Ives glanced at the open door of the office and saw two young staffers—a male wearing glasses and a female with barrettes in her hair—looking into the office as they passed.

Ives gestured to the door and said, “If you’re going to yell things like that at me, can you at least shut the office door or something?”

“Afraid all your little minions are going to hear? Maybe they need to hear exactly what’s going on here.”

“They know what’s going on here. Why do you think they’re here? To get paid,” Ives said, and then waved his hand in a continuing gesture, adding, “and to ensure a better future for America with patriots and freedom and God and all that.”

“Unless you have a retarded baby, apparently.”

“Jesus,” Ives said, “I didn’t think you could use that word.”

“I don’t believe this,” Marybeth said.

“I mean, yeah, I guess I kind of get it now; the word sounds a lot meaner when you say it.”

Marybeth retorted with an incredulous, squeaking groan.

“Look, relax,” Ives said.

“Don’t tell an angry woman to relax,” Marybeth snapped.

“I’m not,” Ives said. He stood up and walked to Marybeth, putting his hands on her shoulders. “I’m telling the mother of the future of our nation to relax. The only thought in your luminous, stress-free mind and body right now should be healthy baby. You have a job to do, and that job will pay handsomely. Incredibly handsomely if you do that job right.”

“But…”

“No but,” Ives said. “Only the job. That is all you need to think about. I won’t fuck you. Screw you over, I mean. Or whatever. You just focus on the job. I’ll talk to Maniker.”

“What is a mankiller?”

“I’m sure we can divert some of the early campaign funds into a trust for you and the baby should anything happen. It’s actually a great idea,” Ives said, “I hadn’t thought of it. But an emergency fund is smart. Thank you for that.” He felt her shoulders relax under his hands.

“Can I at least name the baby?” Marybeth said.

“What do you want to name it?”

“George.”

“Then, no,” Ives said.

“Why can’t I name it George?”

“Just relax, Nation’s Mother, you focus on a healthy baby.”

“George was my father’s name.”

“Shh,” Ives said in a hushed voice. “Calm thoughts. Just remember we’re professionals here.”

“But…”

“Calm thoughts,” Ives interrupted. “Why don’t you grab one of the staffers to get you some herbal tea?”

“One of the staffers?”

“Yeah, grab Dead Eyes.”

“Dead Eyes?”

“Yeah, the pretty one with the big dead-looking eyes.”

“I don’t know her.”

“Good, she’s kinda mean, anyway. Hey, how about Irving? He’ll get you some tea.”

“It’s Ernest.”

“Yes, I am being one hundred percent earnest; you need to calm the body and the mind.”

“No, it’s…”

“Sh-sh-sh-sh,” Ives said, patting her shoulders. “Calm thoughts. You need—hey, you, Barrettes,” Ives barked out the door at a girl passing in the hall. It was the one who had passed earlier wearing barrettes in her hair.

“Me?” the girl said.

“Yes, you. Grab Ms. Fredrickson here some herbal tea and take her to the lounge; you know the lounge?”

“Yes.”

“Sit her on that nice comfy couch, you know the one I mean? With the really puffy cushions?”

“No.”

“Well it’s there. You’ll find it. And turn on the TV for her. Maybe find that Bob Ross channel…”

“Bob Ross?”

“Yeah. They have a whole channel devoted just to him.”

“The guy with the hair?”

“Yup. Sit her down with her tea and let her enjoy some happy little clouds. Got that?”

“I think so.”

“Perfect. See?” he turned to Marybeth. “Focus on you. And that little future president inside of you.”

“George?” Marybeth said.

“Bob,” Ives said.

“Huh?” Marybeth said.

“Ross,” Ives said.

“No, I meant…”

“Bob Ross,” Ives said. “Watch a little Bob Ross. Let his voice lull you to sleep. A little mindfulness on your part, and we can accomplish great things.”

“Like naming him George.”

“We’ll shelve that and run it by Maniker.”

“Is that like a computer or AI or something? Because I wouldn’t name AI mankiller, it sounds—”

“Barrettes?”

“Yes?”

“Bob Ross. Tea. STAT. And a nice cozy blanket for this one.” He turned Marybeth to face Barrettes and the door.

“Do we have a cozy blanket?” Barrettes said.

“Find one. Buy one. I don’t care. Your job is for this woman to relax.”

“How do you usually relax?” Barrettes asked Marybeth.

“Got any pot?” Marybeth said.

“Jesus, no,” Ives said. “Tea and Bob Ross.” He guided Marybeth out into the hall. “And a cozy blanket. Enjoy.”

He shut the door behind them. “We’re fucked,” he sighed.

4. Rock ‘n’ Roll Jesus

Ernest Sinclair strolled the sidewalk with two coffees in hand. He slowed as he heard a guitar trilling from a small group of people. He stopped to listen to a man with long black hair and a thick black beard playing a lilting tune which sounded somehow sad and happy at the same time. When the man finished the song, he looked up at the spatters of applause and spotted Ernest. The man smiled and said, “Sorry, folks, my coffee is here. I’ll be taking a few minutes break.”

The man leaned his guitar against a wall and walked to Ernest. “Hey, Ernest.”

“Hey, Joshua.” Ernest handed him the coffee. “What were you playing there?”

“The theme of Amarcord.”

“Is that like a special guitar chord or something?”

“Not quite,” Joshua said, heading off toward the spot where they generally enjoyed their coffee. As Joshua began walking off, Ernest said, “Are you just going to leave your money lying there?” He gestured with his coffee to the open guitar case filled with money.

“It will be fine,” Joshua said, continuing to the low parapet which served as their coffee spot.

Two skateboarders zoomed past, almost clipping Ernest, as they shouted, “Hey, Rock ‘n’ Roll Jesus,” toward Joshua.

When Ernest caught up to Joshua and sat on the low wall, he said, “People call you Rock ‘n’ Roll Jesus?”

“White people do.”

“I guess it’s not a bad nickname.”

“Some call me Rock-n-Roll Nigger.”

“That’s, um, pretty horrible,” Ernest said, about to take a sip of his coffee. He stopped and said, “Are you even Black?”

“Close enough for them,” Joshua said, sipping his own coffee.

“What do Black people call you?”

“Rock-n-Roll Nigga,” Joshua said.

“That sounds way cooler.”

“Right?”

“Are you sure your money is all right?” Ernest said, gesturing toward the open guitar case again.

“You can’t spend your life believing the worst in people,” Joshua said.

“I guess that’s easy to say when your job is being out here in the sunshine, doing what you love among the people, instead of stuck in an office with annoying coworkers.”

“Look, man, it ain’t always sunny out here, what you love doesn’t seem so great when asked if you’ll sing “Shape of You” twenty times a day, and many of my coworkers, as I’ve told you, call me the n-word, and that’s the passivelyaggressive ones.” Joshua held out his hand, as if telling a dog to stay, gathering himself a moment. “But I love it, and wouldn’t do anything else. The point is, the grass is always greener, right? If you don’t like where you are, change your outlook. Make where you work what you want it to be.”

“My bosses are trying to get a baby elected president,” Ernest said.

Joshua chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first.”

“No,” Ernest said. “I mean an actual baby. Literally a baby. And by literally, I mean literally. The candidate literally hasn’t been born yet.”

Joshua chuckled again. “Look, I guess I don’t follow your Capitol Hill lingo, but there have been bad candidates in the past, and—”

“Dude, this isn’t political jargon. I’m talking an actual baby.” He cradled his coffee cup as if rocking a baby to sleep.

Joshua chuckled. “I doubt they’ll get far. There are rules and all. You have to be a certain age, right?”

“We found a woman to give birth to her 35-year-old brother.”

“Oh. Okay,” Joshua said and shrugged. “I guess they have all the bases covered then.” He sipped his coffee.

“I don’t know,” Ernest said, sipping his own coffee. “Sometimes I don’t even recognize the things I say and do anymore. I mean, my dad got me this job, and he’s super proud of me and all, but I just don’t feel like myself there.”

“Is it that you don’t feel like yourself, or that you aren’t being yourself?”

“I guess the second one. I’m acting like someone I’m not.”

“Then maybe start acting like yourself and see what happens. You’re a personable dude, mildly funny.”

“Mildly?”

“Just be yourself.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Ernest said.

They both sipped their coffees, watching the people mill about.

Ernest said, “I think that dude is about to snatch your money.” He gestured toward a slouchy youth in a hood edging toward the open guitar case.

“He’ll make the right choice,” Joshua said.

The guy snatched the money.

“Hey,” Ernest said, standing up.

The guy ran off.

“Dude, he just took your money,” Ernest said. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

“Why? He made his choice.”

“Yeah, but you said he’d make the right choice.”

“How do you know that wasn’t the right choice? Maybe he has a little brother at home he’s in charge of, and the last box of Cheerios they’ve been living off of just ran out.”

“That was very specific.”

“People always say look at all the bad in the world, but what if all that bad is just the lens people look through? What if that bad hides the good? Like that guy’s love for his brother. I can make more money.”

“I don’t know if I can see the good in all of this,” Ernest said, gesturing in a manner to encompass the world.

“Do you think your bosses will actually get that baby elected president?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past these people. They’ve gotten this far.”

“What if a baby president turned out to be a good thing?”

“How would a baby president be a good thing?”

“Everyone loves babies. People are always happier when one is around.”

“Except on airplanes,” Ernest said, gesturing with his coffee to note his point.

“Except on airplanes,” Joshua said, noting the point with his own coffee. “But maybe a baby president is what the world needs. Babies see the best in everyone. They aren’t racist. They don’t care about religion or politics or wealth.”

“I feel like there is a song about that,” Ernest said.

“‘Imagine,’” Joshua said.

“Yeah, I imagine it would be a good song, but I think there is a real song like that,” Ernest said.

“Look,” Joshua said, “you are young still, maybe too young—you seriously don’t know that song is called ‘Imagine?’”

“What song?”

“Never mind. The point is you’re too young to be cynical. You should still have some kind of hope for the future.”

“People tell me I’m an old soul.”

“An old soul would know who John Lennon is.”

“I know who John Lennon is.”

“But you don’t know his most famous song?”

“He sang too?” Ernest said.

“Too?” Joshua twitched his head and said, “Look, you have a chance to leave a mark. I come out here each day because when I play music, people walking by seem to change their step a little, walk with a little more bounce. That bounce can have a ripple effect. Maybe that bounce gives them enough to give a bounce to someone else. You have the chance to cause much larger ripples. Think about the way a baby makes people feel? Right? That could send shockwaves through the whole nation.”

Ernest nodded and smiled. “You really believe that?”

“Not really,” Joshua said. “But what matters is if you believe it.”

The slouchy youth in the hood approached Joshua.

Ernest and Joshua looked up: Ernest apprehensively, Joshua expectantly.

When the youth extended his hand, Ernest leaned back. Joshua did not. The kid’s hand was filled with money.

“I took this,” the youth said.

“Do you need it?” Joshua said.

“Kinda,” the youth said.

“Then keep it.”

The youth didn’t move, confusion seeping into his eyes. “I don’t…”

“Seriously,” Joshua said. “Consider it a loan.”

The youth remained frozen for a moment and then turned and walked away with the money.

“Guy didn’t even say thank you,” Ernest said.

“He’s still trying to figure out the angle to what just happened. He doesn’t realize there is reason to thank me yet. It will come to him.”

“That’s some weird shit right there,” Ernest said. “Robber bringing back the money.”

“Not as weird as you think,” Joshua said, finishing his coffee. “Well, I should be getting back to my playing. Got some money I need to make now.”

“What song are you going to play?” Ernest said.

“‘Imagine,’” Joshua said, walking toward his guitar.

“Okay,” Ernest said. “Then I imagine it will be ‘Shape of You.’”

5. Den Mother

Ives walked into the lounge and found Marybeth lying on the couch watching Bob Ross paint a happy landscape.

“Jesus, you’re still in here?” Ives said.

“Where am I supposed to go? I don’t want to cross a street; it could be dangerous. I wouldn’t want your premiums to go up.”

“Are you worried about slipping in the shower too?” he said, gesturing to the few greasy strands of hair breaking free of a haphazard bun.

“Seriously?” she said, cocking her head. “The man is going to insult the woman’s appearance? Am I not smiling enough for you too?”

“Don’t pull that shit with me. I’m concerned, is all. I asked Barrettes to bring you here a week ago. Did she forget about you? You been trapped here ever since?”

“Ha, ha,” Marybeth offered an exaggerated laugh. “Was I wearing this outfit a week ago?” She swept her arm along her body, gesturing to the sweatshirt and yoga pants.

“Nope.”

“Then you’ve answered your own question.”

“Thought maybe you had a closet of clothes somewhere in here.” He gestured to the Styrofoam takeout containers littering the coffee table and said, “Seeing as it appears you’ve taken up permanent residency.” He picked up a stray, soggy nacho from one of the containers. “You missed one,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you didn’t eat one?”

“Are you calling me fat?” Marybeth said.

“How is that calling you fat?”

“Implying that I ate a whole container of nachos.”

“Did you eat this whole container of nachos?”

“Yes.”

“I still don’t see how that is calling you fat.”

“By implying I ate it all.”

“But you did eat it all.”

“Yeah, but it’s the implying that makes it offensive.”

“I don’t see how—look, I’m just concerned about the health of the baby,” Ives said.

“Don’t want him to be fat?”

“No, I,”—as Ives said this, Marybeth blurted, “Like his mother?”—“don’t,” Ives finished.

“So you do think I’m fat?”

“How is that…What?”

“You said you don’t want him to be fat like his mother.”

“That’s not fair, you slipped that like his mother in.”

“You still meant it.”

“His mother is anything but fat. She is beautiful and vibrant and, frankly, glowing right now.”

“So fat people aren’t beautiful and vibrant?”

“You’re being very difficult right now.”

Marybeth sat up on the couch and folded her arms. “You’re supposed to be better at this,” she said. “Thought you were supposed to be some kind of great spin man.”

Ives groaned. “Are you still all pissy about the insurance thing?”

“All pissy? You’re now going to call an angry woman pissy. And might I add, one with raging pregnancy hormones?”

“I am calling you pissy, because you are acting as such. The fact that you are an angry woman is merely coincidence.”

“But the pregnancy part isn’t. Because if you remember, you put this baby inside me—” Marybeth stopped and looked toward the open door to the hallway. Barrettes and Specs stood in the doorway.

“Now you come to check on her?” Ives barked at Barrettes.

“I have been checking on her,” Barrettes said.

“How about going and getting her an apple or something? Maybe like a fruit basket?”

Barrettes stared at Ives for clarification.

“Now,” Ives barked. “I mean it, get her some fucking fruit and vegetables instead of this shit.” He held up the soggy nacho to stress his point.

“Okay,” Barrettes said, turning to leave.

“And grab me some Ben and Jerry’s, like, something double chocolate,” Marybeth called after her. “And a fucking cigarette, maybe.”

“Jesus,” Ives said. He then looked at Specs. “You need something?”

“It can wait,” Specs said.

“Good.”

Specs turned and disappeared out of the room.

“Where were we?” Ives said.

“You were calling me pissy,” Marybeth said.

“And you were complaining about being pregnant.”

“That’s the problem,” Marybeth said. “I don’t feel pregnant. I feel like a…I don’t know what. An incubator. A vessel. A fucking hot box for your shit.”

“That’s kind of what you are. But I think surrogate sounds much nicer.”

“Feels ickier than that.”

“These types of deals of women carrying surrogate fetuses are made all the time.”

“A lot less now.”

“Okay,” Ives said, holding up his hands and reverting to his soothing voice. “You’re supposed to be relaxing. Look,” he pointed to the television, “Bob Ross is on. Barrettes is getting you fruit.”

“I want more say in the pregnancy. This baby needs a mother-slash-sister.”

“Okay, you’ll get it,” Ives said.

“And he needs to be named George.”

“I doubt I can pull that off.”

“But—”

“But,” Ives said, holding up his finger, “we’ll see.”

“Okay,” Marybeth said.

“Okay,” Ives said, turning to leave.

“Do I really look beautiful?” Marybeth said, stopping him. She brushed a strand of hair from her face.

Ives turned and said, “Yes. Saying that you’re looking radiant was not spin.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m glowing?”

“Absolutely.” They grinned at one another. As Ives turned to leave, he called over his shoulder, “Although that could just be chicken wing grease.”

Marybeth watched him go, huffing, “Such an asshole.”

6. By Any Other Name

Marybeth, sitting at the conference table surrounded by two dozen suits, said, “Shouldn’t I get more say in this? I mean, it is my baby.”

“Technically, it’s not,” Ives said.

“You want this thing inside of you then?” she said, pointing at her stomach.

“Fair enough,” Ives said. “But this all has to be planned out very exactly. From a marketing standpoint. There’s a lot of moving parts right now. However, you are right, in that you are family. And you will have a say in certain aspects.”

“It’s just…when do I get my say on this marketing thing?” Marybeth said.

“When you graduate from Harvard Business School,” a waif, twenty-something with straight black hair sneered from across the table.

“Did you get stretch marks, swollen ankles, and a leaky vag at Harvard Business School?” Marybeth sneered back.

“Okay, okay,” Ives said. “Look, Marybeth, you’re right, you at least deserve a say in the matter.” He sighed and said, “Tell them what you think the baby’s name should be?”

“Well, given we now know it is a boy…” Marybeth said.

“Thank god,” everyone around the table muttered.

Marybeth said, “I think it should be named after my father.”

“George,” Ives said.

The team groaned.

“Not presidential enough,” the waif said.

“Not presi—the first fucking president was named George,” Marybeth said. “And George Bush, and…George Bush the other one…there’s been a ton of George presidents.”

“It’s meh,” the waif said.

“And who are you again?” Marybeth asked the waif.

“My name’s Ambrosia.”

“Well, Amber—”

“Ambrosia,” the waif said. She then smirked and said, “It’s the food of the gods.”

“And I’m sure they’ve all had their fill,” Marybeth said, gesturing toward the men around the table, “but this is a family thing, so, unless your name is Amber—”

“Ambrosia.”

“—Fredrickson, then maybe you should shut the fu—”

“Okay, okay,” Ives said, holding up his hands.

Timmy, his face never without the glow of a device screen, looked down at his laptop, saying, “According to the polling, a name like George could work with the right middle name. People respond better to a three named president.”

“Well, duh,” Ambrosia said. “The problem with George is the Fredrickson after it; it’s so basic.”

Marybeth said, “Look you scrawny—”

A woman, sitting beside Ives, held up her hand. She was older than most sitting at the table, with a build that was a cross between a burlesque star and a pit bull. She wore a power suit accessorized by an explosion of perfectly coiffed red hair. Marybeth thought she’d said her name was Stella. Stella Mankiller.

The woman said, “She’s right.”

“Who’s right?” Timmy said.

“They both are,” Stella said, gesturing to Marybeth and Ambrosia. “The name George is probably played out in terms of presidents. It reeks too much of old politics. This candidate is new.”

“Literally,” Timmy said.

“We need a name that’s fresh, but traditional, conservative,” Stella said.

“But my father’s name was George,” Marybeth said.

“George doesn’t work,” Ambrosia said. She then raised her voice as if speaking to someone hard of hearing. “It’s too basi—”

Marybeth shot back, “I’m about to basically rip your—”

“What middle name would you pair with George?” Ives asked Marybeth.

Marybeth shrugged. “I don’t know, Allan?”

“George Allan Fredrickson?” Ives said.

Ernest, sitting scrunched in his chair, chuckled and said to the young staffer seated beside him, “Sounds like the patriarch of a department store empire, who sits in his study of trophy animal heads and farts dust.” He chuckled again and began tapping his pen on his notebook. When he realized everyone was looking at him in silence, he said, “What?”

“You promised I would be the witty, wiseass one of the bunch,” Ambrosia whined to Stella.

“Looks like you’ve been outwitted,” Timmy said. “Hey, that kind of works.”

“We can’t do George Allan Fredrickson,” a young, bespectacled staffer announced. “The initials are G-A-F. The press will have a field day if the president is prone to gaffes.”

“Aren’t most babies prone to gaffes?” Ernest said.

“You’re the campaign manager, Slick,” Stella said. “What do you think you can work with?”

“Fredrickson is tough.” He then said to Marybeth, “Are you sure you’re not willing to use your ex-husband’s name?”

“Are you kidding me?” Marybeth said.

Specs said, “The candidate and mother having different family names makes the candidate sound like the child of a broken home; we need to bury the ex.”

“Not like anyone in this room has ever wanted to bury an ex; am I right?” Ernest said, nudging the staffer beside him with his elbow. “I mean, I heard Ives has seven of them.” Again, when he realized everyone was looking at him in silence, he said. “Shit, I’m fired, aren’t I?”

“That’s a shame,” Ambrosia said.

“All she has to do is take the ex’s name too,” Ives said.

“All I have to do?”

“But your ex husband’s name is Le Rocher,” Ives said. “It’s literally The Rock in French.”

“Too foreign,” Specs said.

“Our base thinks the French are a bunch of pussies,” Timmy said.

“It sounds like a hockey name,” Ives said. “You can’t get any more blue-collar-tough-guy than that. Hockey players scream our base. They’re strong, determined, rugged…. ”

“White,” Ernest said. After another moment of silence, he said, “I think I’ll be going.” He gathered his notebook and slinked toward the door, but he couldn’t get by the gaggle of staffers standing around the table.

“We need a name that’s blue-collar American,” Stella said. “Something patriotic, but never used by a president. If possible, it should have a double meaning that can be used on campaign posters as a descriptor for the president’s manner. The middle name should invoke the nation’s ancient cultural roots. Maybe something Roman or Greek, but not too foreign sounding. The name should scream tradition, but still be anti-business-as-usual. The last name…we’ll just have to work with Fredrickson. So, what do we have?”

Everyone around the table looked to the ceiling for answers, some muttering name combinations under their breath.

Ernest tiptoed to the table and said, “Um, what about Francis Ulysses Fredrickson? Call him Frank?”

Stella looked up at Ernest. “What’s your name?” she said.

“Um, like my name, or like the baby’s name I just came up with? Did you not hear it?”

“Your name. What do I call you?”

“Unemployed.” Ambrosia said.

“My name is, um, Ernest Sinclair?”

“Are you sure?” Stella said. “You sound a little unsure.”

“Sure about the name; unsure about the situation?” Ernest said.

“Sit down, Ernest,” Stella said. She turned to Ives. “I see the campaign posters: Francis Ulysses Fredrickson, call him Frank.”

Specs said, “But the first two initials are F-U.”

“Perfect,” Stella said.

“Good thing their last name isn’t King,” Timmy said.

“So, we’re going to print out posters with his name before he is even born?” Marybeth said.

“Yes,” Ives said.

“No,” Stella said.

“Of course not,” Ives said.

“That’s for later, during the heart of the campaign,” Stella said. “For now, the posters will read, who…”

Everyone looked at one another, shrugging and shaking their heads.

“Who,” Stella said again, emphasizing the word.

Their heads shook more.

One staffer ventured to say, “President Fredrickson?”

“No,” Stella said. She held up her hands, as if indicating a marquee, and said, “Who.”

“Is this like an Abbott and Costello thing?” Ives said.

“Who’s Abbott and Costello?” Ambrosia said.

“Aren’t they the senators from Louisiana?” Specs said.

“Yes, they are,” Ives said, “but that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly an Abbott and Costello thing,” Stella said, pointing at Ives. “The first signs read, Who? Then they read, Who will help us? Who will fix this? Who will save us? And then finally, they read, He is coming, and then, He came.”

“Maybe tweak those last two to He’ll arrive and He is here?” Timmy said.

“That’s, um, very biblical sounding?” Ives said.

Specs said, “Biblical polls high with the base.”

“Print them up,” Stella said.

“And don’t be stingy with the parting clouds,” Ives said.

Stella stood and everyone seated at the table mirrored her standing. Everyone, that is, except for an older gentleman sitting in the corner.

Stella turned to Ives and said, “Should we wake the head of media for this media project?”

“I’d maybe let him sleep,” Ives said. “Might take too much time to bring him up to speed.”

Stella turned to Ernest and said, “You, you’re in charge of poster distribution. Find the right places for them.”

“Me?” Ernest said.

Ambrosia whined, “Why does he get to do that?”

Stella said to Ernest, “Take her to help you.” She regarded the two of them, and added, “And try not to taste the food of the gods.”

“Ew,” Ernest said.

Ambrosia clucked her tongue.

Stella turned to leave, but stopped when Marybeth called, “Ms. Mankiller?”

Stella cocked her head and said, “Have you bestowed me a nickname, Ms. Fredrickson, or is that what you really think my name is? I’m not sure if I should be flattered, insulted, or just mystified at your stupidity?”

“Which answer will get me more say in this campaign?” Marybeth said.

“Well, clearly you’re not stupid. My name is Maniker, but you call me Stella. And the way you get more say is to come to me on matters instead of Slick.”

“But Slick is the Campaign Manager, I thought he was in charge. Isn’t he the boss?”

“Dear, just because someone’s in charge, doesn’t make them the boss.”

“Because…” Marybeth paused a moment, and then said, “If something goes wrong, the boss can’t be fired, but the person in charge can?”

“See?” Stella said, pointing at Marybeth, “I pegged you right; you’re far from stupid.” And with that, Stella left the room.

7. Money Makes the Spin Go Round

“Slick,” a voice called from behind him.

Ives closed his eyes, hoping to banish the voice’s existence. He stopped short in the hallway, allowing the herd of staffers to flow past him, and then he turned to face a man who was buttoned up physically and emotionally.

“What can I do for you, Tracy?” Ives said.

“It’s Trey,” the man said.

“Cee,” Ives said. “Trey-cee.”

“I prefer to go by Trey now. I told you this.”

“I know you told me, but I don’t accept it. You can’t just cut your name in half like that; I don’t suddenly go by Sly.”

“I can do what I want because it’s my name.”

“But it’s not your name; your name is Tracy. It’s been Tracy for the year I’ve known you. It’s Tracy on your license and all your paperwork and birth certificate. It’s been Tracy all your life.”

“Until now. I’m going by Trey now.”

“Sorry, but Tracy, you can’t just change your name like that.”

“But I did.”

“Yeah, you did. Doesn’t mean the rest of us have to change it too. You can’t just start calling a hammer a lollygogger and expect everyone else to say: pass the lollygogger.”

“Why do you have a problem with this? You don’t call anyone by their names, except me.”

“Those are nicknames. Nicknames I graciously bestowed upon people.”

“Then Trey is my nickname now.”

“You can’t give yourself a nickname. It’s like giving yourself a haircut; you might think it’s cool, but it looks stupid.”

“I’m Trey now.”

“Look, we know you only changed your name because we hired all those young, cute staffers. I’m trying to help you out here. Trey is a self-haircut and it looks stupid on you. And I’ve told you, Tracy sounds cooler than Trey anyway. Think how much cooler Tracy Morgan is than that Phish guy.”

“I don’t know what a fish guy is.”

Ives put his hand on Tracy’s shoulder. “Look, give me some time, I’ll bestow a nickname on you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I need to think about it. What’s your last name again?”

“Bonham.”

Ives thought for a moment. “Yeah, no one cool has ever been named Bonham.”

“Wasn’t there a rock drumm—”

“Nope,” Ives said.

“And singer—”

“I don’t think so.”

“And an act—”

“No. I told you: no one cool. Let me think about a nickname. I never miss on these.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Good talk.” Ives started down the hall again, but Tracy stopped him.

“No, wait. That’s not what I needed to talk to you about,” Tracy said.

“Then why did you ask me about it?”

“I didn’t.”

“I’m a busy man, Tracy.”

“Trey,” Tracy said as two staffers passed them in the hallway.

“Are we really going to have this discussion again?” Ives said. “Because I told you I’m busy.”

“No.” Tracy darted his eyes up and down the hallway, and in a lowered voice said, “We need money. We’re bleeding cash. Offering seven figures to the First Mother is insane.”

“It was seven zeros.”

“That’s worse. The insurance premiums are killing us. And you keep hiring people. How many people were in that conference room today? And you have the most expensive media head in politics and he fell asleep during the meeting. You had to outsource his work to fucking kids.”

“Luckily I hired those kids.”

“We need a healthy influx of cash.”

“Then do some fundraising or something. Isn’t that your job?”

“No. That’s your job.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t I been doing that? No wonder we’re losing cash. Okay, I’ll see who I can delegate that job to. Maybe I’ll hire someone.”

“No. No more hiring. That’s more money out.”

“It’ll even out. Didn’t Stella just fire someone?”

“No.”

“I remember someone being fired; that Irving guy.”

“She immediately hired him again and gave him and Ambrosia another job. They were the ones working on fundraising.”

“Okay, I’ll get Timmy on fundraising. It’s just been hard finding money because now that we’ve fixed everything, we have nothing to connect with the people about.”

“We didn’t actually fix anything.”

“Seems pretty fixed,” Ives said, shrugging. “And now the donations are drying up.”

“I was thinking maybe it’s time to approach Old Bones?” Tracy said.

“I don’t know about Old Bones. I can’t get in to see him. He’ll only talk to Stella.”

“He has so much money.”

“Yeah, but…Stella’s been hesitant on that for some reason. I think she’s scared of the old guy, and if she’s scared of someone, then I’m scared of that someone. And there’s no way I can get in there on my own to see him anyway. Who else can you contact about money?”

“I told you, that’s not what I do. I just keep track of the money. Frankly, I’d prefer not to know where it comes from.”

“You’re in the hotdog business now, and it’s time you know what kind of meat is in that vat. In fact, it is your job to know what kind of meat is in that vat so that you know what kind of meat to say it isn’t. You’ve been in politics before, at least that’s what you told me, so c’mon money guru, you need to guru that money. You must have some kind of insight to where there is money.”

“That’s what a campaign manager does.”

“How much are we paying you, Tracy? Seems we paid quite a bit to get a veteran money guy. Someone who can crunch them numbers. You know who’s good at crunching numbers? That Specs kid. Are you telling me your position is a financial redundancy, and Specs can do it for half the price?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Tracy said.

“There you go. And I know just where to go for a new crisis,” Ives said.

“I thought we were trying to avoid any more crises.”

“No. A national crisis. To fundraise on.”

“If I get some leads on where the money is, do I get a nickname?” Tracy said.

“The coolest nickname ever,” Ives said.

“Okay. Cool,” Tracy said, strutting down the hall and smiling at Ernest and Ambrosia coming the other way.

“Go get em, Penis Face,” Ives called after him.

Tracy turned back, a panicked look on his face.

“Just trying it out,” Ives said. “I don’t think it’ll stick.”

Tracy walked away again, this time more tentatively. Ives chuckled watching him go. Ives looked at Ernest and Ambrosia. “You,” he said, pointing at Ernest.

“Me?” Ernest said.

“Him?” Ambrosia said.

“Yeah, come with me; we’re on a mission.”

“But, Ms. Maniker told me to—” Ernest began.

“Mission,” Ives said and strode off down the hall.

8. Quokka Polka

Bachman Riggs was already at the bar when Ives and Ernest walked in.

“Why is it you can always find journalists at a bar?” Ives said.

“Because you called me and told me to meet you here?” Bachman said.

“Yeah, and notice I had to tell you where to find journalists,” Ives said.

“If you’re looking to go down a circular logic hole, you’re out of your league.”

“Yeah, you can really tell you’re at the top of your game. What was last night’s show about?”

“The resurgence of 80s hair bands could encourage young men to wear makeup and hairspray.”

“I was riveted.”

“What do you want me to do? You guys got your Border Wall. If I bring up illegal immigrants now, then it’s admitting the solution didn’t work. So the immigration problem has to be solved as far as our news cycle goes.”

“You’re a one trick pony. They build a wall and you turtle.”

“Mixing metaphors as usual,” Bachman said.

“Ad hominem-ing as usual,” Ives said.

“You always have the right made-up word at the ready.”

“At least I can create something.”

“Look, the Personhood Act has pissed off the majority of women voters, and Hell hath no fury…yada yada,” Bachman said. “So I have to focus on the male audience now, and primarily their fears of being pussies. You got anything better for me, I’m all ears. Like announcing a candidate, maybe? You ever going to give me a name of who you’re running? Why the secrecy?”

“We’re waiting for the big reveal.”

“It better be pretty fucking big, because we in the news rooms are getting pissed off. I know you know who it is, but for some reason we’re all being told to tiptoe around it.”

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

“Unless you’re running the corpse of Ronald Reagan, your party is as dead as he is. As I said, Hell hath no fury.”

“Our base is still strong.”

“That’s one word for them. Every candidate you’ve run out there gets indicted. Hard to keep pointing fingers at the Deep State.”

“We got someone unindictable.”

“The corpse of Mother Theresa?”

“Better.”

“A dog?”

“No.”

“Hedgehog?”

“Now you’re being silly.”

“Is it—what are those animals that smile all the time?”

“Sloths?”

“No, they’re like rodents or something.”

“You?”

“If you’re going to be a dick then I’m leaving,” Bachman said, turning to leave.

Ives blocked his path, saying, “Campaign funds are running dry; we need a new boogeyman to splash on the television each night, and neither you nor I are leaving until we get one. So think.”

“Can your candidate bring back women voters?”

“Guaranteed. Now think. We need a crisis STAT.”

“Don’t you think I have been thinking?”

“No. As far as I can see, you’ve just doubled down on the men don’t be pussies schtick.”

“And it’s worked.”

“For who?”

“Whom.”

“Whom?”

“It should be whom.”

“I got a whom for you.”

“Who?”

“Now it’s who?”

“Yeah, it’s—”

Ernest, who had been looking at his phone, suddenly said, “Quokka.”

“Huh? Who’s that?” Bachman said.

Ives looked suddenly at Ernest. “Shit, I forgot he was here. That’s Irving.”

“Ernest.”

“I don’t care who he is,” Bachman said, pointing at Ernest. “Who’s Quokka?”

“The rodent that smiles,” Ernest said. “They’re called quokkas.”

“Does he need to go to the bathroom after pulling that factoid out of his ass?” Bachman said to Ives. “Or is he wearing a diaper?”

“I just looked it up on my phone,” Ernest said.

“Irving is our top media guy,” Ives said.

“Ernest.”

“What happened to Slim Collins?” Bachman said. “I thought he was your top media consultant.”

“Don’t you worry about Slim, he had other engagements.”

“You couldn’t wake him?” Bachman said.

“No,” Ives said.

“Did you at least check for a pulse?”

“Kind of. And the word is quokka,” Ives said.

“We’ve established that?”

“And I always have the right word at the ready.”

“Except for whom apparently.”

“Are we gonna keep dancing the Polka here? Because right now the song is quokka, and it’s the word of the foreseeable future, used to describe a rodent with a fake smile, nothing to say, while being overexposed each night on the leading news network. I think quokka will be a good name for that person—you—throughout the press pit.”

“More mixed metaphors.”

“You want to keep dancing?”

“I’ll tell you for whom my being-a-pussy-fear-schtick works,” Bachman said. “Truck sales have nearly doubled.”

“And most are electric.”

“Fuck you.”

“You know what you are, Bachman?”

“I can’t wait to hear.”

“You’re human Viagra. All hard for about an hour, but then it’s like putting a condom on a log of shit.”

“That was unnecessarily vulgar even for you,” Bachman said.

“Give me a crisis,” Ives said.

“Fine. How about aliens,” Bachman said.

“You and your freaking aliens.”

“What? It works. The Air Force is even saying they’re seeing spaceships.”

“Under any real scrutiny, they’ll turn out to be mylar balloons from kids’ birthday parties.”

“And then the Air Force will just say they’re not balloons.”

“For how long? Think they’ll risk having to admit they’ve been hoodwinked by floating shiny Elmo faces? Besides, aliens are too abstract. We need something we can actually point to. We’ve still got those idiots and their shape-shifter theories running around in our party. Makes us look stupid.”

“Makes you look stupid?” Bachman said.

“You? Hey, you’re part of the us too.”

“I’m an independent journalist.”

“You are the polar opposite of both those things, and now you’re wasting time. Give me a crisis.”

“How about the need for a Northern Border Wall? We’ll say immigrants are streaming in from Canada.”

“Canadians are too white to scare the base.”

“Eskimos?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Look,” Bachman said, “I’m not the one who actually pushed through all the stupid shit you were peddling. By building the wall and passing the 31^st, you killed your greatest hits. It’s like the Stones singing they’ve finally got satisfaction. You’ve shed the women voters. And without the concept of boogiemen crossing the borders, who are you going to say are coming for their jobs?”

Ernest chuckled and quipped, “Maybe all those unaborted kids?”

“What’s that?” Ives said, snapping his head toward Ernest.

Ernest flinched as if about to be struck. “I was just kidding,” he said.

“But what did you say?” Ives said.

“I said that all the kids now in foster care because of the 31^st Amendment would be coming for their jobs?” Ernest said.

Ives and Bachman stared at each other for a moment.

“Honestly, it was just a joke,” Ernest said.

“This kid is brilliant,” Bachman said.

“Um, what?” Ernest said.

“Yeah,” Ives said. “An army of children being raised in the liberal government system, trained and brainwashed to replace the current generation with a new generation of communist super-workers.”

“It’s the whole reason the liberals enacted the 31^st Amendment in the first place,” Bachman said.

“But didn’t we enact that amendment?” Ernest said.

“Shh,” Ives said. “I think we’re onto something here. And we just so happen to have the right candidate to fight for that new generation.”

Bachman scoffed, “Who are you running, Mary Poppins?”

“Better.”

“Unless you have a baby candidate, then I don’t see—wait, you’re not running a baby are you?”

“Ernest, you’re a genius,” Ives said.

“It’s Erne—you got my name right.”

Ives said, “Bachman, don’t you have some preparing to do for tonight’s show?”

“Are you running a baby?” Bachman said.

“I’ll go as far as giving the candidate’s initials. F and U,” Ives said. “Now get to work. Don’t fuck this up, or I’ll shove a quokka so far up your ass you’ll…never mind, you probably have one up there already. C’mon, Ernest.” He headed for the door.

Bachman grabbed Ernest. “Is it a baby?” Bachman asked.

“That would be dumb to run a baby, wouldn’t it?” Ernest said.

“Well, yeah, but…” Bachman shrugged and watched Ives exit the bar. “I’ve seen dumber.”

“He said it was a quokka, didn’t he?” Ernest shrugged and followed his boss out of the bar.

9. Who's on 1st and Main?

Ambrosia plodded with her shoulders hanging forward, her head tilted toward the sky. It was a pose any parent of a tired toddler would recognize. “Where are we?”

Ernest called back to her, “I think we’re coming up on 1^st and Main.”

“Why do we have to keep walking?” she whined.

“Because then we can see what the people will see,” Ernest said.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Ambrosia said, elongating the word means in a wail.

“Ms. Maniker said to put these signs in the perfect places, so we are finding the perfect places.”

“We should be done with this already.”

“It’s not my fault Ives grabbed me like that.”

“What were you even doing with him?”

“Somehow fucking things up worse than they already were,” Ernest grumbled to himself.

“What?” Ambrosia said.

Ernest stopped and pointed. “There, see that alley between the coffee shop and hardware store? We put this a few feet down the alley so it just peeks out, just enough to catch people’s eye, and the people stop, backup, and read it. Then they wonder about it all day.”

“Why can’t we just ask to put the sign in the coffee shop window and be done with this?”

“Because then we have to explain to the owner what who is, and we can’t do that.”

“Shouldn’t it be who who is?”

“No, it’s a what. It’s a movement.”

“This is like a movement all right,” Ambrosia said.

“Here, give me a sign,” Ernest said.

Ambrosia sighed and peeled a poster from the roll she carried.

Ernest took the poster and held it to the wall. The poster’s corners rolled toward him. “A little help,” he said.

Ambrosia sighed again and held two of the corners. Ernest painted the sign with glue and then stepped back to admire his work.

A middle-aged man stopped and admired the poster. “Cool,” the man said.

Ernest nodded with enthusiasm. Ambrosia rolled her eyes.

The man said, “Are they coming?”

 Ernest said, “Are who coming?”

“Yes,” the man said.

“Huh?”

“The Who?”

“The What?”

“No, The Who.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about The Who.”

“The who’s coming?” Ernest said.

“I don’t know, you tell me. You hung up the poster.”

“Then, yes, who is coming.”

“When are they coming?”

“They?”

“The Who.”

“What?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Ambrosia muttered.

“When are The Who coming?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why did you hang the poster?”

“To let everyone know someone is coming.”

“The Who?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you, Abbott and Costello?” the man said.

“The senators?” Ernest said.

“Hey, genius,” Ambrosia said to the man, “It’s just who. Who says ‘the who’ anyway? Just who. Are you like short-bussed or something? This is so idiotic.”

“Yeah, I’m the idiot because you don’t know who The Who is. Makes perfect sense,” the man said. He then walked away, grumbling, “Millennials.”

Ambrosia said, “Ew, like I’m old enough to be a Millennial.”

“What the hell was that?” Ernest said, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Gross,” Ambrosia answered.

“Huh,” Ernest said, looking at his phone.

“What?”

“The Who was apparently a rock band, popular in the 1960s, 70s, and 80s.” Ernest held up his phone to show Ambrosia.

Ambrosia glanced at the picture on Ernest’s phone. “Are they like peeing on a wall or something?”

Ernest pressed his phone screen and “Won’t Get Fooled Again” began playing.

“Isn’t this like from some old television show?” Ambrosia said.

“I think so. I’ve definitely heard it somewhere before.”

“Why would that guy be excited about someone who writes music for television?”

A woman walking by stopped at the sign. She looked at Ernest and Ambrosia and cocked her thumb toward the sign. “First base?” the woman said.

“Has everyone had a stroke or something?” Ambrosia said.

The woman said, “You know, Abbott and Costello?”

Ambrosia threw up her hands.

Ernest shrugged, shaking his head.

“Try looking it up on your little phone there, kiddies,” the woman said and walked away.

Ambrosia made a face like someone biting into an onion. “Kiddie? Why—” But before she could finish, two voices were speaking—one voice high and nasally, the other low and gruff—from Ernest’s phone.

Ambrosia craned her neck to see the screen. “Uhg, it’s in black and white?”

“Shh. This is kind of funny.”

They watched for a moment.

“I don’t even get what they’re talking about,” Ambrosia said.

“Really? Kind of obvious.”

“Okay, then you tell me what they’re talking about, Einstein?”

“The guy playing first base is actually named Who.”

“What’s the name?”

“Apparently he’s another one.”

Ambrosia huffed.

Ernest said, “This is incredible. We were literally doing this exact bit. It’s like we ripped it off or something.”

“Who’s we?” Ambrosia huffed.

“That guy and me. The one we just talked to about that band.”

“You mean The Whose?” Ambrosia said.

“The Who?”

“I swear if you start this thing up again I’m going to replace your eyeballs with your testicles,” Ambrosia said.

“You’re such a pill,” Ernest said.

“A pill?” Ambrosia said. “You called me a pill? How old are you?”

“I’m just out of college.”

“That’s not an age.”

“Can we at least agree that this is funny?” Ernest said, waving the phone as Abbott and Costello’s argument came to an end.

“No,” Ambrosia said.

Ernest stared at her as foot traffic picked up around them.

“Okay, it’s funny, god,” Ambrosia huffed.

“Thank you,” Ernest said. “I’m sure it hurt to say that.”

“You have no idea.”

“Let’s get going,” he said. “Lunch crowd is coming.”

Ambrosia groaned and plodded on, saying, “This better be some kind of loyalty test for a promotion. Otherwise, I’m replacing Stella’s eyeballs with her testicles.”

10. Doctor's Lobby

Marybeth reclined on the examination table, her bulging belly exposed. The doctor squirted clear goo onto Marybeth’s stomach and began rubbing it with a wand. The doctor said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. We usually have a tech do it.”

Ives stood beside them, bobbing his head on his neck, as if trying to track an invisible fly. He said, looking toward the door, “Yeah, well, this is an important process.”

“Hey, Stevie Wonder,” Marybeth said to Ives, “You don’t have to avoid seeing me; it’s just my belly exposed. My vag is staying hidden this time.” She turned to the doctor and said, “He’s still tweaked from when he peeked one time. Out cold.”

“I told you I was dehydrated.”

“You’d think, being married six times, the vaginas would start blending together.”

“How do you know I was married six times?”

“I have my sources.”

“One, as I said, I was dehydrated. And two, I shouldn’t have looked, okay? It’s like accidently walking in on a colleague while they’re naked or something…it’s just relationship altering.”

“I’ll walk in on you taking a dump some time to even it out.”

“I don’t think that’s the same.”

“What do you think, doc, is it the same?”

The doctor was looking at the screen above the table. He said, “You may want to check out the screen. Don’t you want to see your son?”

“Brother,” Ives said, approaching the screen.

Both Ives and Marybeth squinted at the screen.

“Look at him,” Marybeth said in the tone of wonder known to most expectant parents.

“We’re sure it’s a boy, now, right, doc?” Ives said.

“Yes,” the doctor said, “See his penis?”

“That’s his penis?” Ives declared. “It’s huge.”

“No, that’s his leg,” the doctor said. “That’s his penis.”

“I can’t see it. Is it big?”

“You have pimples that are bigger,” the doctor said.

“How does it measure up to other babies? I mean, is it going to be proportional, or bigger than most?”

“Why are you so concerned about my son’s penis size?” Marybeth said.

“Brother,” Ives said, “And, believe it or not, dick size tends to come up during debates.”

“His penis looks to be on track,” the doctor said.

“How about the rest of him?” Ives said. “Growing at a good rate?”

“He looks to be progressing healthy and normal,” the doctor said.

“Has kind of a weak chin,” Ives said.

“Babies tend to not fully develop facial—”

“Any chance he’s coming early, doc?” Ives said.

“Well, there’s no telling,” the doctor said. “But the due date is still January 20^th.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work,” Ives said. “We’re going to need him at least two, three weeks before that.”

“The only way we can guarantee that is with a c-section,” the doctor said.

“Then let’s schedule a c-section.”

“Hold on…” Marybeth said.

“The Iowa Caucus is February 7^th,” Ives said. “He needs to be there, looking strong and ready to lead the nation. I guess there’s nothing to be done about that chin, but we can’t have his limp head wobbling around.”

“Expect the limp head,” the doctor said.

“What’s the earliest you can perform a c-section?” Ives said.

“I’m not—” Marybeth began.

“You don’t understand,” the doctor said. “I can’t perform a c-section at all unless there is a serious medical emergency.”

“Well this is serious,” Ives said.

“No, you’re still not understanding,” the doctor said. “It would need to be something along the lines of acute placenta previa, and even then—”

“Well, write it up, doc,” Ives said. “She has placenta primavera; we’ll go with that.”

“Again, you’re not getting it,” the doctor said. “There’s no scheduling anything. I would need to be able to prove it was an emergency procedure in court. Under the Personhood Act, if the baby dies during a c-section, the doctor needs irrefutable proof the procedure was warranted, otherwise it is considered an abortion. I’d be charged with murder. This is why c-sections are now only performed for the most prolific of emergencies, and even then, we can’t do anything unless the emergency occurs during the birth. Weird you wouldn’t understand that.”

“Well he is a man,” Marybeth said.

“Yeah, but he is a man whose organization helped write the law,” the doctor said.

“You know, doc,” Ives said, “there is a very substantial pharmaceutical company—big political donors—and they’re looking for a physician spokesman for a line of prenatal treatments. It pays around 300 grand a year. But they need someone who is able to recognize placenta primo.”

“Previa.”

“Exactly,” Ives said. “Now, do you think you’re someone who could recognize that condition?”

“But the law…” the doctor said.

“Like you said,” Ives said, “it’s our law. And what are the odds any complications won’t occur? Like one in three-hundred-thousand a year?”

“Well…” the doctor said with a shrug. “I could probably take a closer look to make sure the placenta is aligned.”

“Hold on,” Marybeth said. “Don’t I get a say on the health of me or my son?”

“Brother,” Ives said.

“He’s part of my womb right now,” Marybeth said, “so he’s my goddamn son.”

Ives sighed and said, “Marybeth, don’t you remember our agreement? And the benefit of being the president’s moth—sister? Well, that was contingent on his being president.”

“No, the agreement was that I give you a healthy baby. And that’s what I’m going to do. So we aren’t yanking him out unless he’s fully cooked. And don’t you forget the deal, Ives. Healthy baby, healthy payout.”

“Um, yeah…but the presidency is kind of how we make the money to….”

“The baby stays in until he’s ready,” Marybeth said. “If you don’t want a floppy-neck-baby then give him head Viagra or something. I’m sure you’ve got a pocketful of them, or your big pharma company can get them.”

“Okay. Okay, fine, no c-section. But start pushing now, because that kid needs to be out in time.”

Marybeth turned from Ives and said, “So you were saying, doctor? He’s developing nicely?”

“Yes, he—”

“Wait, is there really a such thing as head-Viagra?” Ives said.

11. Who is Right?

Ambrosia plodded after Ernest. She avoided a pedestrian and said, “You know, you could have gotten this for me,” she held up her coffee cup, “instead of grabbing two for yourself. I mean, who does that? Orders two coffees, and then tells me one of them isn’t for me.”

“I would have gotten you one,” Ernest said, holding up his two coffee cups, “but you strike me as someone with an incredibly complicated coffee order. I didn’t feel like having the barista hate me.”

“I drink my coffee black.”

“That makes sense,” Ernest said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Drinking black coffee is a sign of psychopathy.”

“And drinking it with sugar and cream is a sign of being a pussy.”

“I’m being serious,” Ernest said. “About the psychopathy. They’ve done studies.”

“I’m serious too,” Ambrosia said. “About the pussies, I mean. I’m doing a study of it right now.”

Ernest slowed his pace, turning his head to retort, but, instead, he pursed his lips and picked up his pace again. “C’mon, it’s not much farther,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“To drop off this coffee. And then to finish hanging the posters.”

“Can’t we just dump the rest of the posters into a dumpster?” Ambrosia said. “We’ve been doing this for days. How much longer are they going to make us do this?”

“I guess we do it until they give us something else to do. And I’m not dumping these things in a dumpster; I’ve already been fired and unfired once.”

“You fired yourself, shithead,” Ambrosia said.

“Huh?” Ernest said, turning his head toward her and almost walking into a passing pedestrian.

“You’re referring to what happened in the conference room the other day, right?” Ambrosia said, avoiding the pedestrian too. “They didn’t fire you. You said, ‘I’m fired, aren’t I,’ and got up to leave. No one actually said you were fired.”

“Yeah, but I—”

“You thought you were actually fired for insulting Slick? That guy insults everyone constantly. He calls me Dead Eyes. Like that’s my literal name.”

“Yeah, but he’s the boss.”

“So?”

“He can fire us.”

“Us? I just told you, he calls me Dead Eyes. If he fires me, I’ll sue him for creating an uncomfortable work environment. So, for me, it’s kind of like whatever.”

“That doesn’t help me,” Ernest said.

“If you get fired, sue him for discriminating against your sexual preference.”

“What’s my sexual preference?”

“The fact you’re asking should be an indication.”

Ernest stopped short, causing Ambrosia to almost walk into him. “Wait, are you—?”

“Thinking Out Loud,” Ambrosia said.

“Yeah, but do you think—?”

“No, the song. I hear ‘Thinking Out Loud.’ You know, by Ed Sheeran?”

Ernest turned his head and saw the small crowd gathered around Joshua. “That’s where we’re going,” Ernest said.

“You know that guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Does he know ‘Shape of You?’”

“C’mon.” Ernest darted his head in Joshua’s direction and started walking again.

They arrived at the small crowd, catching the end of the song.

After Joshua finished the final note, and nodded acceptance to the spattered applause, he excused himself from the listeners and headed to Ernest and Ambrosia.

“Hey, Ernest. Thanks,” Joshua said, taking the coffee Ernest offered to him.

“Hey, Joshua. Back to Ed Sheeran, huh?”

“Had a request.”

“The requests never end for Rock ‘n’ Roll Jesus, huh?”

“Next thing they’ll be asking for Water into Wine.”

“That’s a great idea for a song,” Ernest said.

“It is one,” Joshua said.

“Thanks.”

“No, it already is a son—”

“Are either of you supposed men going to pay attention to the hot girl standing here?” Ambrosia said.

Joshua popped up his eyebrows in surprise, his accustomed smile flashing wider.

Ernest rolled his eyes and said, “Joshua-Ambrosia, Ambrosia-Joshua.”

“I’d shake your hand,” Ambrosia said, “but, as you can see, they’re full.” She lifted up her occupied hands. “One with the coffee I was forced to get myself, and the other with the posters we are supposed to be hanging right now, you know, for our job.” She glared at Ernest.

“Posters?” Joshua said, “Let’s see them.”

Ernest took a poster from Ambrosia and unfurled it.

“‘Who?’” Joshua said, looking at the parting clouds and reading the one-word question emblazoned in gold letters.

“Hey,” Ernest said, “have you ever heard of the band?”

“The band The Band?” Joshua said.

“Huh? No. The band.”

“Who? The Band?” Joshua said.

“Yes,” Ernest said.

“Huh?”

“Oh god, please make it stop,” Ambrosia said.

“Wait, are you asking if I’ve ever heard of the band The Who?” Joshua said.

“Yes. What did you think I was asking?”

“Of course I’ve heard of The Who,” Joshua said. “What music do you even listen to, Ernest?”

“Showtunes and Judy Garland,” Ambrosia said.

“So, who is who?” Joshua said.

“And here I thought we were out of the woods on this,” Ambrosia said.

“Our new candidate,” Ernest said.

“The baby?” Joshua said, chuckling and heading off toward their usual coffee-drinking spot.

Before Ernest could follow him, Ambrosia stopped him. “You told some homeless guy about the candidate?”

“He’s not homeless,” Ernest said. “At least, I don’t think he is.”

“You don’t thi—you don’t know him?”

“Of course I know him,” Ernest said. “I just don’t know his living situation.”

“What’s his last name?” Ambrosia said.

“Or his last name,” Ernest said, heading toward Joshua.

“Ernest…” Ambrosia said, unable to find the words to finish. She then gestured back toward Joshua’s guitar case. “Is he just going to leave his money there?”

“It’s fine. C’mon,” Ernest said, waving for her to follow.

Ernest and Ambrosia arrived at the parapet. Ernest sat beside Joshua.

Ambrosia stood with hip cocked and her coffee and the posters held with crossed arms. “So, Rock ‘n’ Roll Jesus, you don’t care about your money?” she said, nodding toward Joshua’s open guitar case.

“Seems you care about it more,” Joshua said.

“Believe me, I don’t care about it at all.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“I care about stupidity. And you are displaying it.”

“What stupidity is on display?”

“You’re going to lose your money.”

“But we’ve already established I don’t care about the money.”

“So, what, you play music to be a kind of ATM?”

“Do you want the money?”

“Sure.”

“Then take it. It’s right there.”

Ambrosia blew through her pressed lips in a scoff. “He’s stupid and crazy,” Ambrosia said to Ernest, gesturing toward Joshua with her coffee cup. “Great combo.”

“He’s not stupid.” Ernest said.

Joshua said, “Seems like maybe it’s not the money you care about.”

“I just said that.”

“But you do care about something.”

“Said that too.”

“I think what you really care about is being right.”

“So you’re admitting I’m right,” Ambrosia stated.

“Sure,” Joshua said.

“I don’t get you,” Ambrosia said. She then turned to Ernest, saying, “Guy argues with me and then tells me I was right.”

“There’s a big difference between being right and being correct,” Joshua said.

“Actually there isn’t a difference at all,” Ambrosia said.

“You’re right,” Joshua said.

“Is this part of the Who’s on First thing?” Ernest said.

“Okay, Hippie Yoda,” Ambrosia said to Joshua, “I know you have some pseudo-philosophical bullshit up your sleeve, which you are about to lay down, so lay it on me.”

Joshua flashed his smile. “Hippie Yoda?”

“You like that one?” Ambrosia said.

“I do.”

“It’s better than Rock ‘n’ Roll Ni—” Ernest began to say, but stopped when Joshua laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Let me explain right vs. correct,” Joshua said.

“Please do,” Ambrosia said.

“Being right is a state of mind. Being correct…” Joshua paused, lifting his hands and offering an epistemic shrug. “That’s usually a lot more complicated.”

“Thanks for explaining,” Ambrosia said. “It’s much clearer now.”

“Most times,” Joshua said, “correct can easily be explained by science or facts. Take an extreme example: people who believe the world is flat—” he stopped and asked Ambrosia, “—you don’t believe the world is flat, do you?”

“No.”

“Good. Common ground at last.”

“That’s not a good start to our relationship: that our only common ground is that the world is round.”

“But it’s correct.”

“What is? The world being round?”

“Yes.”

“Yes; it is correct.”

“But to someone who believes the world is flat, you are wrong.”

“Doesn’t matter if they believe that. The world is round.”

“But not to them.”

“So what?”

“They aren’t arguing with you because they are trolling you or just ignorant. They have put a lot of thought into their belief. And to them, they are right. Nothing you can say, no amount of facts you offer, can dissuade them because, according to their facts, they are right.”

“Yeah, but the facts are wrong.”

“Not to them. So, if their facts aren’t wrong to them, then they are right.”

“Yeah, but they’re not corre—” Ambrosia stopped and took a deep breath. “You fucker,” she said.

Joshua smirked.

Ernest cringed, wide-eyed, waiting for Ambrosia’s eviscerating retort. Surprisingly, it never came.

“Where it gets complicated,” Joshua said, “Is when the facts are so vast and at opposition with one another. Then reasoned thought can be nullified by diametric facts.”

“And now comes the pseudo-philosophical bullshit,” Ambrosia said, rolling her eyes.

“Take for example,” Joshua said, “groups of people fighting over huge tracts of land, especially when both groups have legitimate claim to that land. Then correct becomes extremely muddled, if not nonexistent, and people rely solely on being right. And when you’re right, it’s harder to objectively reason and work on a solution. And that’s when motherfuckers get killed.”

Ambrosia scrutinized Joshua for a moment before saying, “Then I suppose you’re right.”

Joshua chuckled.

“So…” Ernest said, scrunching up his face, “I guess we’re right to run a baby for president?”

“No, that’s just stupid,” Joshua said.

Ambrosia scoffed and chuckled silently. She took a sip of her coffee while glancing across the landscape. She then said, “Well I was correct about your money.” She gestured toward the open guitar case.

A weaselly man scurried past a handful of pedestrians and snatched the money.

“There it goes,” Ambrosia said as the man scurried off into the crowd.

“Yeah, but,” Ernest said, “you never know, maybe the guy has a sick mother at home and he needs to pay for her operation. Right?” he said to Joshua.

“Nah,” Joshua said, “That’s Frankie Fingers. He’s just a klepto.”

“It’s a good thing you played all those songs so Frankie Fingers could get a fix,” Ambrosia said.

Joshua shrugged.

A moment later, a hooded youth appeared with Frankie Fingers by the nape of his shirt.

“Hey, isn’t that…?” Ernest said. He squinted, focusing on the face beneath the hoodie. “That’s the kid who stole your money the last time.”

“So this happens often?” Ambrosia said.

Frankie Fingers returned the money to the guitar case, and the hooded youth let him go.

The youth and Joshua exchanged wry smiles as Frankie Fingers slinked away.

“The Lord giveth, and that dude taketh away,” Ernest said.

“You can say that again,” Joshua said.

“The Lord giveth, and—”

“Don’t start,” Ambrosia said.

12. Master Debaters

Ives and Marybeth stepped into the elevator. As soon as the doors shut, Marybeth said, “I can’t believe you. I can’t even talk to you right now.”

“You’ve already said that,” Ives said. “You said it in the elevator leaving the doctor’s office. You said it while walking through the parking garage, then again while getting into the car, then driving in the car, and getting out of the car. Then you said it while walking through another parking garage, and you said it while I held the door for you to enter the building. And each time you say, you can’t even talk to me, I expect the not talking to maybe last a little longer.”

“So you do want the silent treatment?”

“Yes.”

“Then in that case…” Marybeth folded her arms and pinched her mouth shut.

“Good. Thank you,” Ives said.

Marybeth burst from her folded arms. “You really think I am going to keep quiet about this? When can we cut the baby out of her stomach? That’s your question to the doctor? Are you serious? Do you even care about this baby?”

“Of course I do. He’s the next President of the United States.”

“No. I didn’t ask if you cared about the President. I asked if you care about this baby?”

“Of course I do,” Ives said. “That baby is the next President of th—”

“God,” Marybeth screamed, “You are impossible.”

The elevator dinged and the door opened. Ives and Marybeth came face to face with a UPS delivery guy, who was waiting for the elevator. The guy regarded them wide-eyed. Marybeth looked at the elevator’s ceiling, trying to burn holes through it. Ives stared at the delivery guy for a moment and then smiled.

“Everything all right?” the delivery guy said.

“Sure,” Ives said. “Why?”

“Heard screaming coming from, like, two floors down.”

“We’re good,” Ives said.

The delivery guy looked at Marybeth. “Ma’am?” he said.

“What?” Marybeth said, still looking at the ceiling.

“Everything all right?”

“Is for me. Don’t know about him,” she said.

“Ah,” the delivery man said, with sudden understanding. “You fucked up,” the guy said to Ives, and the elevator doors closed again.

“God Damnit,” Ives said as the elevator began heading back down. “You couldn’t have, like, held the door or something?” he said.

“Me?” Marybeth said. “You were just as close.”

“We’re going down now,” Ives said.

“Good. I’ll drop you off in Hell.”

“I feel we’ve had this argument already,” Ives said. “So I know you understand what is happening here. It’s a presidential campaign. If that baby is late, then we have nothing. We need the candidate.”

“But if you take him early, and he ends up retarded…” Marybeth said.

“Your word, not mine,” Ives said.

The elevator dinged, and the door opened. Four people Ives and Marybeth didn’t recognize got on. One of the four people pressed the number 3 on the panel. Ives pressed 4. He leaned back and released a deep breath.

Marybeth stared at the ceiling again, tapping her foot.

The four people who’d entered the elevator glanced uneasily at them and then faced forward.

“Doesn’t matter to you anyway,” Marybeth said.

“What?” Ives said.

“You have your insurance.”

“Jesus, this again?” Ives said. “That is a last resort. I am serious about our candidate, and it would be nice for him to show up at the actual caucuses and events. We’ve got debates to attend. Can’t do it with an empty podium.”

“Not like he will talk anyway.”

“He still needs to be there.”

“So, what, the other candidates can just talk to a floppy head and get no answer?”

“There will be no floppy head if you let me do what I need to do. And yes. The answers don’t matter. Who actually listens to what is said in a debate? But he does need to be there.”

“How about I show up, and his opponents can talk to my hooch.”

The other four people glanced at each other then looked forward again.

“I can even get the thing talking if you want,” Marybeth said. “Get the lips moving and all?”

The four people glanced back at her and then faced forward again.

“I’ve got a really talented vag,” Marybeth said.

The four people’s eyes widened as the elevator dinged. The door opened and the four people scattered out of the elevator like thoroughbreds from the gates.

The doors shut again.

“You always have to take it there, don’t you?” Ives said.

Marybeth shrugged. “If by there, you mean my vagina, then yes. Seems to be the focus of a lot of people lately anyway.”

“Well, if you let the doctor do the C-section, then it wouldn’t be such a focus, would it?”

“You’re certainly staying on brand wanting to take the woman out of childbirth.”

“Stop with this feminist Gloria Steinem bullshit.”

“Feminist bullshit? Look you Cro-Magnon buffoon, you’re about to join the feminist ranks when I—” the elevator dinged and the door opened “—rip your dick off and shove it up your ass. Bend over and prepare to lose your cherry, motherfucker.”

The UPS man was again standing outside the now open elevator doors, along with a gaggle of staffers.

“Dude,” the UPS man said to Ives, “you in trouble.”

The elevator door began to close, but Marybeth shot out her hand and popped it open again. She stormed down the hall.  After a moment, Ives exhaled and shook his head, having to pop open the door again. He then exited the elevator and followed in Marybeth’s wake.

“Dude, I wouldn’t go down there,” the UPS man called after him. “It’s a trap.”

Ives stepped into his office and found Marybeth pacing in pendulous strides.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said.

“Then can you, like, leave my office and hate me somewhere else? I have work to do.”

She groaned and headed toward the door, stopping face to face with him. She then said, “You are the most infuriatingly careless lump of penis-bearing flesh I have ever met. And bear in mind I am divorced from a man who demanded his last name be pronounced in the anglocized ‘The Rock.’”

Ives said, “You are the most spoiled, self-centered, bratty vagina vehicle I have ever known, and bear in mind I have been married to seven women who all demanded their names be pronounced as if bearing nonexistent accents. Shaunay? It’s Shauna. I’m surprised you haven’t demanded to be called Marie-Buth yet.”

They stared at each other, their chests heaving with the gulping breaths of battle.

“Are you super turned on right now?” Marybeth said.

“Yes,” Ives said.

They locked lips.

Ives pulled back and said, “Just how talented is your vagina?”

“Very,” Marybeth said.

They locked lips again as Ives kicked the office door shut.

13. Who's Off First

Three staffers burst into Slick Ives’s office.

“Jesus—ouch—what the—?” Ives shouted. “Out. Get out. Knock and identify.”

The three staffers shuffled back quickly, bottlenecking for a moment before exiting and shutting the door.

Outside the office, Specs knocked on the door. There was no answer.

“What was he doing in there?” Barrettes said. “Drugs?”

“Maybe he was jerking off,” Folders said.

“Ew,” Barrettes said.

“He was probably just sleeping or something,” Specs said. “Have you seen him go home yet?”

“Why should he get to go home if we don’t?” Folders said.

“I better not see any cum,” Barrettes said, “It makes me faint.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Both Specs and Folders turned to say something to Barrettes, but they were cut off when Ives shouted, “Who is it?” from the other side of the door.

“It’s the ballots team, sir,” Specs called through the door.

“Come in,” Ives called.

Specs opened the door. The three staffers bottlenecked again in the opening, then entered the room. All three began speaking at once.

Specs saying, “Sir we have a problem with…”

Barrettes saying, “I think we may be having slight…”

Folders saying, “We’re fucked.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ives said, waving his hands. But the staffers kept talking.

“…the ballot signatures in certain states, it seems we—”

“…irregularities in how we are collecting signatures—”

“We are so fucked.”

“Hey,” Ives shouted, cutting them off. He patted his hands in the air, saying, “Okay, relax. Take a deep breath.” He took a deep breath, then said, “First off: didn’t your mothers ever teach you to knock before entering?”

Specs and Barrettes nodded. Folders said, “My mother’s dead.”

Ives snapped his eyes to the staffer. “Did she tell you to knock before she died?”

“Um, I was young, but…”

Ives stared at the staffer, nodding his head to prompt an answer.

“Yes?” Folders said.

“Good,” Ives said. “You came in here like the goddamn FBI. I thought we were being raided or something.”

The staffers glanced at each other, then began speaking at once again.

“Sir, we—”

“Sir, I think—”

“We are so…”

Ives held up his hands, cutting them off, but Folder’s statement, “…fucked,” filled the silence.

“One at a time,” Ives said. He shifted in his seat and winced. “Okay, you—” he pointed at Specs “—tell me what’s happening.”

Specs said, “Sir, we have a problem with the ballot signatures in certain states. People keep asking who Francis Fredrickson is. And we don’t have an answer.”

“Are you using the Ulysses?” Ives said.

“Are we using the Ulysses?” Specs asked Barrettes.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes,” Specs said to Ives in a pleading voice.

“How is this a problem?” Ives said. “People will literally sign anything.”

“Not this. And the name is polling at the bottom of all potential candidates.”

Barrettes said, “Francis Ulysses Fredrickson is even polling ten points below second-to-last place Garrett Thompson.”

“There’s no name recognition for our candidate,” Specs said.

“But why?” Ives said. “It’s a great name.”

“But it’s not a name,” Specs said.

“I’ve never heard of this Thompson guy; how come he’s doing better?”

“It’s Carrot Top, sir,” Specs said.

“Carrot Top…the comedian?” Ives said. “Carrot Top is running for president?”

“Yes,” Specs said. “Seems a lot of people are running this time around.”

Barrettes said, “And Carrot Top is only two points behind Chad OchoCinco.”

“The football player?”

“Ex player, yes.”

“Didn’t he change his name back to Chad Johnson?”

“He changed it to OchoCinco again.”

“He’s trying to appeal to the Latino vote,” Specs said.

“That’s smart,” Ives said. “Who’s polling in first place?”

Folders opened his folder and looked at the paper inside. “It says here Any Viable Candidate.”

Ives leaned back in his seat, then sat forward again, snapping his finger. There was a thud under his desk and he winced, then groaned. “I’m okay. Hit my knee.” He took a breath and said, “Gather the whole team. Meeting in five.”

“Sir?” Specs said. “Five minutes?”

“Yes. In five. Go, go, go.”

The staffers shuffled away, bottlenecking at the door again. On his way out the door, Specs looked back at the desk before the door shut behind him.

Inside the office, Ives rolled his chair back.

Marybeth’s head popped up from beneath the desk. “You’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do, are you?” she said.

“Afraid so,” Ives said, standing and tucking his shirt into his open pants.

“I won’t let you,” Marybeth said, climbing from beneath the desk.

“Sorry,” Ives said, “I am in charge.”

“But not the boss,” Marybeth said.

Ives cocked his head. “What just happened doesn’t change anything?”

“I was planning to fuck Stella next,” Marybeth said.

Ives looked at the far wall for a minute, then said, “Won’t matter. My idea is so epic, she can’t possibly say no.”

“We’ll see,” Marybeth said, striding toward the door.

“No, wait—” Ives said, zipping up his pants, but the zipper got caught. “Oh, god damnit. Shit. Wait.”

But Marybeth was gone.

14. Name Brand

Ives straightened his tie as he opened the conference room door. The room was packed with staffers, but no Stella.

“Excuse me,” a voice said behind him. He turned to find Marybeth and Stella behind him. Ives shuffled aside to let the women through the door. The staffers seated at the table sprang to their feet, offering their seats to the women.

Ives straightened his tie again and plunged into the room.

Now that Stella and Marybeth were seated, the staffers were returning to their seats. Ives grabbed one of the staffers. “Not so fast,” he said, and took the seat. He closed his eyes, massaging the spot between his eyebrows.

“Slick?” Stella said.

“Huh?”

“You called this meeting?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, opening his eyes and seeing Stella sitting like an impenetrable wall beside Marybeth, who looked like a cat daring him to find the missing canary. “Right,” Ives said. “There’s been a development with the polling of our candidate.”

“That development being?” Stella said.

“Tell her, Barrettes,” Ives said, pointing at Barrettes.

“Huh? Me?” Barrettes said.

“Yeah, you’re Barrettes.”

“You call me Barrettes?”

“Yes. Give Ms. Maniker the dope on polling.”

“Dope?”

“The results.”

“That our candidate is polling ten points below some guy called Carrot Top?”

“The comedian?” Stella said.

All of the staffers pulled out their phones and opened their laptops. They all said, “Oh,” when Carrot Top’s picture popped up on their devices.

“Why is Carrot Top polling so low?” Forehead said. “He’s hilarious.”

Everyone looked at Forehead, and he slinked into his chair, saying, “My dad liked him.”

“Could be Carrot Top is polling so low because he’s a ginger,” Timmy said.

The staffers began talking all at once.

“Has there ever been a ginger president?” Specs asked.

“I can’t think of one,” Timmy said.

“What’s wrong with gingers?” Ginger said.

“The first half-dozen presidents, like, wore wigs, who can tell.” Barrettes said.

“And who knows what color Trump was originally,” Folders said.

“Guys,” Ives said. “Why are we talking about gingers? His hair has nothing to do with it. He’s polling at the bottom because he’s fucking Carrot Top. That’s not the point. The point is, our candidate is polling lower than Carrot Top.”

“Why is that?” Stella said.

“Tell her, Specs,” Ives said.

The staffers looked at one another.

“I think that’s you,” Timmy said, pointing at Specs.

“Oh,” Specs said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I think I get this now. Well, Ms. Maniker, the problem seems to be a lack of name recognition. Franklin Ulysses Fredrickson is not a name.”

“Franklin Ulysses Fredrickson is a name,” Stella said. “I know this because I named him. And it’s a great name.”

“It’s a fucking awesome name,” Ives said. “But no one knows it.”

“Yet,” Stella said.

“There is no yet,” Ives said. “The start of the primaries is quickly coming, and with her clenching that baby in…” Ives said, waving at Marybeth.

“So tell her your plan,” Marybeth said to Ives, the canary-eating smile still on her lips.

“Well—” Ives began.

The conference room door burst open, and in spilled Ernest and Ambrosia. They froze and regarded everyone staring at them.

“I thought that was going to be way more discreet,” Ernest said. “Sorry we’re late.” Ernest and Ambrosia shuffled to stand by the end of the table.

“You were saying, Slick?” Marybeth said.

“Is she like running this meeting?” Ernest said to Ambrosia. “How long have we been out there hanging posters?”

“Shh,” Ambrosia said.

“Specs,” Ives said, “Tell Ms. Maniker who is polling highest.”

“Any Viable Candidate,” Specs said.

“Who’s that?” Forehead said.

“No one,” Timmy said.

“This is confusing,” Ginger said.

“It means the voters will take anyone not currently running,” Specs said.

“No,” Ives said. “It means they will take anyone who will never run.”

“Maybe we should just name the baby Any Viable Candidate,” Ernest said, chuckling to Ambrosia.

When she didn’t respond, and he saw the wide-eyed fear on her face, he shifted his attention to the table and saw Ives staring at him. “Sorry,” Ernest said, “I’ll be quiet.”

When Ives still didn’t look away, looking like someone who’d just had the surprise party he’d been planning ruined, Ernest said, “Wait…oh shit…you’re going to seriously name the baby Any Viable Candidate?”

“No we are not,” Marybeth said.

The table erupted into discussions.

“Can you legally name a baby that?”

 “It is three names, technically, which will poll well.”

“It’s already polling at the top.”

“What will we do if he’s elected? Change his name again?”

“Already Viable President?”

“All right,” Ives said, trying to quiet the discussions. “Hey, hey…quiet….” But the discussions continued.

Stella cleared her throat, and the table went silent. She then looked at Ives, but didn’t say anything.

He shrank a little in that stare, but then straightened in his seat. He said, “This is an unbelievably unique opportunity. Think about it. For one thing, gathering signatures will be incredibly easy, and think about the voting. Do you have any idea how long voters have dreamed of a box for Any Viable Candidate? Most will check it out of spite, others just as a goof, the rest will literally check whatever box the television tells them to. I mean, the kid will already be polling at the top of both fields.”

Marybeth said, “I’m not naming my child—”

“Brother,” several voices said automatically.

“Still my child; it’s in my belly,” Marybeth said. “You want me to seriously name him Any Viable Candidate?”

“Yes,” Ives said. He looked at Stella. “Stella, c’mon, help me out here. You know this will work.”

Stella stared at him, as if calculating a difficult math problem, then said, “So you want to trick the voters?”

“No,” Ives said. “It wouldn’t be tricking them because the kid’s real name will be Any Viable Candidate.”

Stella looked to be carrying a few more remainders in her mental math calculation, then said, “Do you honestly think I will disparage the American voter in that manner? The presidential election process is a sacred institution of the American political process. Do you honestly think I will make a mockery of it?”

“But it’s about name recognition,” Ives said. “Francis Ulysses Fredrickson doesn’t even exist yet.”

“Of course he exists,” Stella said. “He’s in her belly.” She pointed at Marybeth’s stomach. “If you need name recognition, then get his name out there. Create a Facebook page or something.”

The staffers groaned or snickered.

Stella stared at them and they straightened in their seats. She lifted her palms above the table in a questioning manner.

Ives said, “I found out the other day: I guess Facebook is for old people now.”

“Old people is our base,” Stella said. “Don’t forget that.”

“But we do need young people to join that base,” Ives said. “Given old people, you know, die.”

“Fine,” Stella said, “then do whatever it is you all do.” She waved her arm toward the gathered staffers.

“We’d probably start on Snapchat…” a staffer said.

“Got to have Insta,” another staffer said.

“Tiktok,” several said.

“I really don’t care,” Stella said. “Just get it done.” She pointed at Ernest and Ambrosia. “You two, you’re in charge of it.”

“Us?” Ernest said.

“Him?” Ambrosia said.

“What about the posters?” Ernest said.

“Oh, yeah,” Stella said. “How did the poster hanging go?”

“Most people either ignored them or thought it was advertising The Who,” Ernest said.

“The What?” Timmy said.

“Who,” Ernest said.

“Huh?”

“Do not fucking start this thing up again,” Ambrosia said.

“Shit, I forgot about The Who,” Stella said.

“Huh?” Forehead said.

“The who?” Barrettes said.

“What?” said Specs.

“Anyway,” Stella said, “I want you and Amber on social media.”

“It’s Ambrosia.”

“Whatever,” Stella said.

“Who is going to do the posters?” Ernest said.

“I don’t know,” Stella said.

“Third base,” Ambrosia said in a mocking tone.

“Maybe a troop of monkeys can do it,” Barrettes sneered in Ambrosia’s direction.

Ambrosia raised her eyebrows, and began saying, “I’ll take your—”

“You,” Stella said, pointing at Barrettes. She snapped her fingers. “What’s your name again…?”

“Barrettes,” Ives said.

“My name is—”

“Doesn’t really matter, the question was basically rhetorical,” Stella said. “You’re now heading the poster team. I want them all over the country before the weekend.”

“Me?” Barrettes said.

“Congratulations,” Folders said.

“All over the country? I hope they’ll be giving you flying monkeys,” Ambrosia sneered at Barrettes.

“Social Media team…” Stella said.

“Us?” Ernest said.

“Him?” Ambrosia said.

“I need an online footprint for Francis Ulysses Fredrickson by five,” Stella said.

“PM?” Ernest said.

“Yes,” Stella said. “We need it up and running by the time people sit down with their phones when they get home from work.”

Ives said. “Can we at least make his middle name Any Viable Candidate?”

“We’re sticking with Ulysses,” Stella said.

“Maybe we can go with both middle names?” Ives said. “Hyphenated?”

“Francis Ulysses Any Viable Candidate Fredrickson would be six names,” Timmy said. “The Cos-tits would have a field day with six names. Or anything six to do with a name. They’d think he’s the antichrist.”

“Cos-tits?” Ives said.

“Conspiracy Theorists,” Timmy said.

“Oh,” Ives said. “They’re called Cos-tits?”

“They are now,” Stella said. “I want the Cos-tits thinking this is the second coming of Christ himself, nothing six in the names. Has anyone counted the letters in each name?”

“Yes,” Timmy said. “seven letters-seven letters-eleven letters.”

“Perfect.”

“Um, that’s twenty-four total letters,” Folders said, “which can be divided by six.”

“But it equals four, not three,” Specs said. “As long as it’s not three sixes.”

“Count again,” Timmy said. “It’s twenty-five letters. I made sure.”

“Oh, thank god,” several staffers muttered.

“Social media team…” Stella said.

“Us?”

“Him?”

“…be sure to utilize these Cos-tits,” Stella said, “they will literally repeat anything you tell them.” She shifted her attention to Ives. “How have we not been doing this already? Why are we just now getting to social media?”

“Folders?” Ives said.

The staffers regarded each other.

“Um, who?” Tiny Teeth said.

“Who has folders?” Specs said.

The three staffers with folders regarded each other.

“I think I’m Ginger,” Ginger said, holding a lock of her hair.

“I’ve heard him call me Twinks?” Twinks said.

“Folders,” Ives said, pointing at Folders. “Why haven’t we been on Twitter yet?”

“I…but I—” Folders stammered.

“We were worried about getting doxed,” Specs said.

“Doxed is—” Timmy began to explain to Ives.

“I actually know this one,” Ives said. “I’ve done a doxing here and there. But what’s the problem with being doxed when we’re looking for name recognition?”

“Because the person being doxed doesn’t exist?” Specs said.

“But he does exist,” Ives said. “He’s in her stomach.” He pointed at Marybeth.

“Yeah, well technically…he doesn’t exist…yet,” Specs said. “We didn’t want to be outed as a bot and be canceled before we even got started.”

“Technically,” Stella said, “the law says he does exist. And any doxers can dox to their doxing delight, because all they will find is the United States Constitution.”

“I just got a hard-on,” Ives said.

Sally Swallows, the head of human resources, groaned and began writing in her notebook.

“Leaving this to the Cos-tits risks losing the narrative,” Timmy said.

“Maybe you should be writing this all down?” Ambrosia said, handing Ernest a pen.

“Why me?” Ernest said, patting his pockets for paper.

“Don’t worry, I have a feeling I’ll be doing most of the work when we get online,” Ambrosia said, handing him a folded-up piece of paper blotted with lipstick.

Timmy said, “It’s true, Cos-tits will repeat anything we put out there, but then it risks being amplified into…I don’t know how to say it.”

“Crazy?” Ernest said, writing on the folded piece of paper.

“That’s it,” Timmy said. “Instead of having a figurative second-coming, it becomes a literal second-coming.”

Specs said, “I agree, if they focus on the baby aspect it highlights too many of the candidate’s weaknesses.”

“Sorry, I’m trying to keep up,” Ernest said, writing on the other side of the folded paper. “What weaknesses are those?”

“That he’s a baby?” Ambrosia said.

“Right,” Ernest said.

“But if we don’t come clean on the baby aspect from the start, it will look like we’re hiding something,” Timmy said.

“I thought you said the whole reason we’re doing this is because babies poll so high,” Marybeth said. “Why am I going through this if you are afraid of a baby candidate?”

“Babies poll high,” Specs said. “Not the idea of a baby. We need to present an actual cute baby for them to embrace. They need an actual golden child, an idol.”

“Avoid the words golden and idol in the same sentence,” Timmy said.

Specs said, “They’ll want an actual something to get behind, not just an idea of something.”

“Yeah, voters aren’t big on ideas,” Ernest said, scribbling on the paper.

“The point is, we need a candidate now,” Specs said.

“Don’t tell her that,” Ives said, pointing at Marybeth. “She’s hoping that if she holds that thing in long enough, she can forgo its college tuition.”

“Why would I care about that? You’ll all be paying for college and beyond,” Marybeth said.

“All right,” Stella said, “then we are all agreed.”

“We came to an agreement?” Ives said.

Stella said, “The candidate keeps his name…”

“But—” Ives said.

“…And we start a social media campaign to flesh out our yet-to-exist candidate. You two…” she waved toward Ernest and Ambrosia.

“Us?” Both Ernest and Ambrosia said.

“Create a campaign that highlights the candidate’s positive attributes, and that is honest and straightforward, while at the same time obscures the fact that he is a baby who has yet to be born.”

“Um…” Ernest said.

“Come on, chop-chop—” she clapped her hands “—we need this by the end of the day.”

“The end of…?” Ernest said in a daze.

“Today?” Ambrosia said.

“What are we all waiting for, people?” Stella said, clapping her hands again.

The staffers around the table shot from their seats and the crowd mulled at the door like sands of an hourglass waiting for their time.

Barrettes passed Ambrosia and said, “You might want to remind your partner, there,” she nodded at Ernest, “that My Space no longer exists.”

“Have fun with your monkeys,” Ambrosia sneered back. “And you might want to remember that monkeys tend to throw semen; try not to get it on your face, all in your hair, your eyelashes, maybe even in your….”

Barrettes covered her mouth and pushed through the crowd. When she made it out the door, a voice called, “Melody is down.”

Someone else called, “Who?”

“Barrettes, she fainted.”

“Again?”

Ives stepped to Stella, saying, “I really think we’re missing a prime opportunity with the name.”

“Do you actually think I am going to name that child Any Viable Candidate?” Stella said. “You, Slick, more than anyone, should understand having to try explaining the origins of a name. All discussions about Any Viable Candidate are done.”

Ives pursed his lips and then glanced at Marybeth.

Marybeth held her hand to her forehead with her thumb and index finger extended in an L shape.

“Really?” Ives said. “And I’m supposedly the out-of-touch old guy by referencing Facebook?”

“Ask your staffers,” Marybeth said, “apparently the L to the forehead is back in.”

“Fads come and go, Marybeth,” Ives said. “You’d be smart to remember that.”

“I’ll pass that on to your boss,” Marybeth said, rubbing her belly.

Ives smirked and walked away.

Marybeth basked in her victory, but her celebration was interrupted when Stella beckoned Timmy from the crowd around the door.

Under her breath, Stella told Timmy, “Get me some numbers on how a candidate actually named Any Viable Candidate would do.”

Timmy nodded and wandered back to the crowd at the door.

Marybeth looked at Stella. But Stella did not look back.

With that, everyone left the room, except for Slim Collins, the media expert, who was still asleep in a chair.

15. The Coming (Hee-Hee, He Said Coming)

Bachman Riggs regarded his audience from inside the television screen. He wore the earnest look of a family member during an intervention, as if sitting in his viewer’s living room, and the television screen did not exist.

“Who, is Who?” he said. “The signs have been popping up across a surprisingly small portion of the country, but word is starting to spread.”

Bachman paused, looking deep in thought, as an over-the-shoulder picture appeared beside him. The over the shoulder was of the sun breaking through parting clouds, and in big white letters, was one word: “WHO?”

“Is it even a person? This Who? An individual? A group? Or is it a movement?”

The over-the-shoulder graphic now depicted a small crowd of pedestrians gathering around a WHO? sign.

“Is it a sign of a coming reckoning? A savior? A warning? Is it asking us to ask the questions no one else in the media will ask?”

The graphic changed to a stock image of the Constitution with the words “The 31^st” splashed across it.

“The Liberals would have you think they are against the 31^st Amendment. That it is a matter of women’s rights. But is it possible the Liberal movement itself was behind the 31st all along? I’m just asking the question. We should all be asking this question: who was really behind the 31^st Amendment? Who really benefited the most from its passage?”

Here Bachman wrinkled his brow in confused solemnity, dropping his mouth open in an expression of slow realization.

“Could it be that the Who, which really benefited from the amendment’s passage, is the Liberal movement?”

Over his shoulder appeared a picture of women screaming in angered protest, Anti-31^st signs clutched in their white-knuckled hands.

“The passage of the amendment drove women voters away from conservative candidates in droves. In the final game for the ‘winner takes all’ soul of our nation, that’s a point for the Liberals.”

He cocked his head in his choreographed, furrowed, slow realization again, as the picture over his shoulder switched to ER doctors scrambling over a woman on a gurney.

“The passage of the amendment created large swaths of health issues from state to state, putting a strain on healthcare profits and an increase of insurance premiums, adding credence to the Left’s argument for reformed healthcare, not to mention single handedly destroying the ultra-lucrative IVF industry. That’s another point for the Liberals.”

With another posed, open-mouthed, furrowed cock of his head, a photo of Oliver Twist-like children appeared over Bachman’s shoulder.

“The passage of the 31^st has increased the numbers of low-income, single mothers and the need for foster care, which has created a need for increased social services. Funneling more money into the Leftist War Chest. Big point for the Liberals.”

His seemingly earnest confusion somehow deepened more than it was before.

“And who has control of these children? The Left. Who gives them food and shelter? The Left. Who fills their heads with notions of free money and government-sponsored easy-living from the earliest age? The Left. Who will be grooming these children in public schools until adulthood? The Left.”

Bachman now stared at the audience through the television screen as a picture of saluting Hitler Youths materialized over his shoulder. “Sounds to me like if the Left has control of these children, then they have control of the future. And if that’s the case, who will have control of our jobs? Our government? Our families? The Left. Maybe the question shouldn’t be: Who benefits most from The 31^st, but rather, Who will stop them?”

His earnest, piercing stare lingered before the television faded to black.

“And that’s it; we’re clear,” a stagehand shouted.

Bachman chuckled, saying, “Fuckers are going to eat that one up.”

“Which fuckers?” the stagehand said, clearing the microphone from Bachman’s jacket.

“All of them,” Bachman said. “Every last one.”