From rns4@pitt.edu Wed Nov 15 23:27:00 2000 Newsgroups: rec.arts.sf.written.robert-jordan Subject: TAN: A Modern Dragonmount From: Robert Strong Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2000 23:27:00 -0500 Assuming Bush wins, like I'm pretty sure he will... ----------------------------------------------------------------- The nation still shook occasionaly as the citizens rumbled in memory, groaned as if they would deny what had happened. The remains of protests and campaigning lay scattered about everywhere. Signs, banners, and confetti littered the ground. All around, there were reminders. Al Gore wandered his home, deftly keeping his balance despite the mass quantities of alcohol he had consumed. Bodies lay everywhere, those who had passed out from exhaustion from too little sleep gained over the past months and had drowned their sorrows in spirits last night. "Tipper! Tipper, my love, where are you?" he cried out. At his feet, a woman lay unconscious in a puddle of Jim Beam and her own vomit. He caught his reflection in a shard of a shattered mirror, broken the night before in a blind rage. He was a tall, slender man in his mid- 40's, dark of hair and eye. He was once considered handsome and always dressed impeccably in Gucci and Armani. Now, all of that had changed. His hair was mussed and his eyes were bloodshot and haunted, having been through too much. Dark bags hung under his eyes and his face was lined with wrinkles and creases. Pinned to his lapel was a plastic blue donkey. He ran his fingers over it, fascinated. It meant something, that donkey. He threw back his head and laughed, "Tipper, my darling, you must come and see this!" Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, another man appeared. He was shorter with hideous blemishes crossing his face. He looked around at the messy scene and tried unsuccessfully to hide his smirk. "Mr. Vice-President, I have come for you," he said. Al's laughter cut off as if it had never been and he stared curiously at the new arrival. "Who are you sir? Tipper, my wife, we have guests!" The stranger's eyes widened as he whispered, "Ronald Reagan take you, do drunkeness, despair, and denial have you already so far in their grip?" "That name...Ronal...no, I must not speak that name. It is forbidden amongst my people. Who are you and what do you want?" The smaller man did his best to look dignified, but, as usual, failed miserably. "Once I was called George Walker Bush, but now I am..." "Dubya." Just speaking the name made Al's skin crawl. Memories pushed in on the edge of his awareness, but he shied away from them. "Yes, men have named me Dubya just as they have named you Boring. But, unlike you, I embrace the name that they gave to mock and scorn me. I will now make them all bow before me and worship it! So you are able to recall that much. I was worried your fuzzy math was crowding your brain. Surely you must be able to remember it all." Al simply cocked his head to one side and stared. Memories now began to fly at him faster...overly dramatic sighs, Social Security in a lockbox, Florida recounts...No!! He pushed them away again. Dubya grimaced. "Look at you. Once you cast the tiebreaking vote in the Senate. Once you had the ear of the most powerful man in the world. Once you invented the Internet. Now what has become of you? You humbled me in the third debate. You defeated me in the popular vote. You even managed to catch my subliminable messages! I have come to destroy you, but I will not do it until you realize the magnitude of your defeat. Remember!" Al could not hold the memories back anymore. They crashed in on him like a tidal wave. Florida is declared for him...then it is too close to call...then it is declared for Bush...then back to too close to call. He had conceded, he had retracted. The overwhelming confusing and pain. Yet, somehow, with the last bit of inner strength left that he had, Al gathered these emotions and turned them into rage. He glared back at his opponent. "Twelve years. For twelve years your father and his foul master wracked this country with their disastrous policies. Just when we were on the verge of fixing it all, you want to return to that. I will not allow it." Dubya's smirk returned. "You will not allow it? How can you stop it? I am the President-elect, and you are merely the loser, condemned to be a footnote to history. All because you and your supporters underestimated my party and I." Cold fear struck Al in his gut and penetrated right to his very soul. Sweat began to roll down his face as he remembered the glory days of the primary election. People assuring him of an easy victory. After all, how could he lose? He was running against a man who had no clue about the issues, only vague ideas of policies, and who could only speak on the level of a competent high school freshman. (And this was after years of private and Ivy League education.) He had been sure he could beat Bush. In his pride he had believed. Al ran. What else could he do? He ran as Dubya laughed and laughed. He ran until his lungs were on fire and his muscles were turned to jelly. Then he ran some more. Finally, he could run no more and collapsed. He looked around...he was in the middle of the Mall, standing in the reflecting pool. He had not been aware he was even wet. He could do nothing but scream. "Forgive me! May Tipper forgive me! Karenna! My country! Please, will you all forgive me!" A lightning storm was fast blowing up, darkening the sky. As Al howled, a gigantic bolt struck from the heavens, drawn by the pool and the man standing in it. It struck Al Gore, turning him to dust and spreading throughout the pool. As quick as the storm blew up, it was gone. From the shelter of the Lincoln Memorial stepped Dubya, who had been witness to the whole scene. He scowled in displeasure and pouted. He screamed, "Daddy! I didn't get to beat him up! That's not fair! You promised I could." George, Sr. stepped up behind his son, also having been privy to the spectacle. He placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "There, there, m'boy," he said, "Just remember the thousand points of light." Looming over everything, the Washington Monument stood alone. Waiting. -- Robert Nelson Strong UIN: 10634737 "Yes, I'm a bigot, but...for the left." --Woody Allen