A deserted aircraft hanger, somewhere in California

 

“Concede, old man!” Joe demanded. “I have all the dirigibles!”

“Never!” Bernie shouted back, struggling to get out of his suit jacket.

“I’m gonna-gonna-gonna beat you with my things,” Joe shot back, holding his arthritic fists up in front of him and jabbing at the air.

“You don’t know what is even going on!” Bernie replied. “I’m the future! I am the rev-o-lu-tion!” He flapped his arms wildly until his suit jacket finally fluttered the dusty floor of the hanger.

“You’re no bigger than Corn Pop!”

“What the hell is a corn pop?”

Biden gibbered incoherently and shuffled toward Bernie aggressively.

 

 

“Why doesn’t anyone like me?” Elizabeth asked Bailey. She buried her face in the thick ruff of the dog’s neck and sobbed. “I couldn’t even win my home state,” she whispered.

She pulled back and looked into the labrador’s warm brown eyes. “But you like me, don’t ya boy? Don’t ya, boy?”

She felt the warm trickle of his urine ruining down her leg and cried even harder.

 

 

“It’s my turn!” Bernie said, swatting at Joe.

“It’s your turn!” Joe replied, a burst vein in his eye spreading out to an 8-ball hemorrhage.

“That’s what I said!’ Bernie said. He grabbed for Joe’s arm, his dry hands scrabbling for purchase against the dress shirt.

“I never said that!” Joe said, panting already. His left arm hung by his side, lifeless.

“Ow!” Bernie said, clutching his chest. “Not now! Not now!”

 

 

“It’s over, Mike, it’s just over,” Mike said into the mirror.

“Half a billion dollars down the drain,” said Mirror Mike. “We could have done some much with that money.

“I still have plenty of money, Mike,” Mike said to Mirror Mike.

“You make me sick,” Mirror Mike said. “You should really think about killing yourself.”

“No, Mike, don’t say that!” Mike said into the mirror. “I’ll run ads against Trump all the rest of the year! I’ll spend a billion dollars to get Trump out of the White House!”

“Chicken,” Mirror Mike growled. “More chicken!”

Mike ground a soggy drumstick into the smooth cold surface of the mirror and began to weep.

 

 

Bernie staggered backward to a metal folding chair and sat down heavily.

“Is that it?” Joe asked. He was trying to make the fingers of his left-hand move and the blood-blown eye had gone blind.

“Only,” Bern wheezed, “I have,” he paused for a few deep breaths, “The stamina,” he swallowed hard and farted, “To win.”

Joe limped toward him, grunting, balling up his right fist. “I’m gonna, thing, with, adverb, direct object, noun.”

“You demented old fool,” Bernie gasped, lifting his foot to hold Joe at bay. The shambling form dropped onto him, tipping them both back onto the floor.

“I’ll never give up the fight,” Bernie gasp, Pepsodent and the sharp reek of cell death fogging Joe’s face.

“I still love you, John Kerry,” Joe said.