[Election ‘016 034] Pataki-Attack

[Election ‘016 034] Pataki-Attack





Useless. It was all useless. It all sucked, and was terrible as well.

He looked at the poll numbers as he scrolled through realclearpolitics on his blackberry. “George Pataki: 0.5%.” “Donald Trump: 85.5%.” Pataki knew he was the only thing standing in Trump’s path towards conquering the hearts and minds of the people, but he was making almost no effect on impeding that path. They were both New Yorkers, but only one of them was displaying that spirit of the Bronx that Pataki treasured so much, despite being born in Peekskill.

Pataki planned and planned, sitting in coffee shops and browsing through co-op stores, letting his mind run its course and figure out the best course of action as to how to destroy Trump once and for all. Would he summon the Hungarian army? Would he use some extra favors from his time as governor and call in a hit squad? Oh, no, he wasn’t the governor of New Jersey; he didn’t have that kind of influence.

What could he do?

The debates had subsided for some time, and Pataki was no longer allowed at the big ones; he was sent back to his farm to think about what he had done. Or more specifically, what he had not done, which was gain 1% in the polls.

Pataki’s only way to act was to act first. He had to fight, and if he was going to lose, he had to fight the good fight even so. Fight.

Nobody cared about Pataki, but Pataki cared about Pataki, and Pataki was going to make Pataki the greatest Pataki the world had ever known. He had to take down Trump. He was the enemy closest to home, and the enemy closest to his heart. Since home is where the heart is, that meant that home and heart were the same, and Trump was the enemy closest to Pataki in all things.

Pataki stepped into the middle of Times Square and began letting an orbital camera circle around him as he stared up at the flashing advertisements, the neon signs, and the honking taxis all around him. A man in a shoddy Elmo costume stepped up next to him and posed as the camera continued its spherical motions, going up and down and around.

“Hear me,” Pataki said, holding a megaphone in his hand. A few dozen people turned their heads to look at him as he spoke. “Donald J Trump is a liar and a crook. He is not a man fit for the office of the White House.” He smirked, and let the megaphone down from his face. He gave it to the man in the Elmo costume, who scampered away to try and get five bucks out of a nearby family with four kids.

The camera continued to orbit around Pataki. Donald Trump did not respond to his statements. They were true, were they not? Why would Trump refuse to respond like this? Was he such a coward that he would run away from any real challenges?

It seems that he was a coward after all; Pataki stood in the middle of Times Square and let the camera move, waiting for Trump to arrive and berate him, but it never came. The world was watching; it knew perfectly that Trump’s response would mark the end of his campaign if they were not sufficiently explanatory. But rather than face that stressful moment, Pataki realized, Trump seemingly simply ran away.

An aide brought Pataki a cup of java. He chugged it, even though it was still piping hot. He could no longer feel his tongue, but he could feel the warmth in his heart, for he had finally taken down the mighty Trump. It was him, in the end, who was the hero of the Republican Party.

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