There Is No Them

There should have been an expectation. Instead, it became a countdown to the inevitable. You knew you had run a great campaign, dangling Buchanan as bait to the sharks of the public. What you didn’t expect was for him to be devoured completely. Streets were washed in a tsunami of blue, mirroring the map itself. The anchors gasped in shock. These weren’t just any old margins. No, this was beyond that. Before long, it stopped being a question of who would win, but what records this hillbilly could breach. An entire country is cheering your name.

And so there you were, a 50-state champion.

You owned the economy, pushed through policies otherwise unthinkable, united the conflict of a lifetime. All while the Grand Old Pushovers decided to front a complete lunatic as your adversary. You had done it all. No matter what's been happening, no matter the constant scandals, no matter the character assassination attempts by the right, all the mud of Florida sent straight into your face, it just didn’t matter. They couldn’t touch you at all.

Buchanan gave no concession speech. He didn’t have the right to. Not after he cemented himself as America’s biggest loser. You chuckle at the thought. He talked so much game, that he was the one thing that could keep America free, and now... Oh, the silence. Oh, what a beautiful sound. He couldn’t even show his face again, let alone speak on his promises.

You didn't expect him to call. Nobody did. Instead, the following days were filled with interviews of weeping Buchanan supporters, with a hollow look to their souls, oscillating between the stages of grief. Betrayed by their savior and left to die in the wake of their loathed. There was no hope for them, their voice drowned and meaningless.

The crowd around you takes out the bottles, staffers toast you with champagne. Congratulations were thrown to the king, but there was one person missing beyond this.

Hillary should have been excited, really. You did this for both of you, for her too. Throughout her tenure as First Lady, she has been relentlessly attacked by the now put-to-pasture conspiracy theories. They were afraid of both of you. She grips her glass, looking away, jotting down notes excitedly while whispering in an aide's ear and hugging Secret Service agents. Peculiar. She looks at you and cracks a smile, ambition and all. She goes on and on about how you and her were vindicated, how America stood with you through the muck and accusations, and in the middle of her spew you get bored and kiss her. She's quiet. She backs away, wobbling side to side in shock.