Day of Chafee
Lincoln Chafee sat in his chair behind of his booth in front of his front yard in front of his house. He had some pitchers of lemonade, and a few oatmeal raisin cookies, and a big sign on the top of the booth that said: “Linc 2016! Only 50 Cents!”
He was just really happy to be out here. When he read on Politico that he had the least money of any of the candidates, he realized it was time for him to do some fundraising. when he was governor in Rhode Island, he didn’t really do much fundraising; this time, it was all going to change.
And so that’s what led him here, ready to replenish his Super PAC, as well as the thirst and hunger of anyone willing to pony up (he laughed to himself as he thought this, thinking about his horse Buttercup).
His wife Stephanie came up to the booth and dropped two quarters down. “I hope you aren’t getting too hot,” she said. She took a cookie and bit down on it. She made a weird face. “Ew.”
“Oh, sorry. It’s a good cookie. I just thought it was a chocolate chip cookie, so it surprised me. That’s why I said ew.”
“Oh, okay.” Lincoln was relieved that his baking skills were still top-notch. He was worried there, for a moment. “Would you mind sitting out here? I think people would love to donate more if they saw a pretty face like yours!”
Stephanie scrunched her face. “I’d love to honey, but… I have to do the dishes. You made quite a mess in the kitchen!”
“Oh, I bet I did,” he said, laughing. “Well you go do that. I’ll try to get the word out about the campaign; we’ll get a couple more voters if we’re lucky.”
“I hope so,” she said before walking back inside.
Lincoln continued to sit out there in the heat, waiting for some people to walk by. A few cars passed him, but none of them seemed to notice him, because they didn’t pull over and check out what he had. It was really sad.
Finally, a man with a guitar strapped to his back, wearing aviators, walked by. He flicked a 2001 Sacagawea coin onto the booth, and gulped down a couple glasses of lemonade. “Thanks for the quench, bro,” he said.
“And who might you be?” Lincoln asked. “You don’t seem familiar to the neighborhood.”
“I’m just a wanderer,” the man said. “A passer-by. You wouldn’t know me.” He began to walk away.
“Wait! Do you want to… Be a supporter of my campaign? I’m running for President.” He took off his shades, and Lincoln realized who he was. “Marty? What are you doing all the way out in Rhode Island?” Martin O’Malley, the man behind the shades, looked bitter. He looked discontent in many more ways than one.
“I’m trying to mix things up a bit,” Marty said. “Gonna make the campaign a little more interesting.”
Before Lincoln could understand what was going on, a gunshot rang out. Before he could even feel the blood pouring out of his stomach, Marty pushed the booth down, letting it crash on top of him.
“Let’s see Hillary deal with this,” he said to himself, walking away.
That was the last thing Lincoln heard before he lost consciousness, and before everything faded away into