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@TheorySwine
Here you go - 500 on the nose.
Mitt disembarked, which shows my ignorance of aviation as it’s most likely a nautical term, his private jet, leaving behind a table littered with Mormon specific drug paraphernalia, a map of the United States and ‘The Dummies Guide’ to ruling said confederation of states, to greet his Floridian supporters all too suspicious of his bogus smile. They knew he’d be beaming that private equity grin of his, shimmering with the sparkle of mergers and acquisitions and heavyweight conference calls. Power oozed through his clammy shirt, itself stuck to his God fearing skin with the exertion of being the most powerful man in that cramped, overpriced jet he’d somehow stopped short of covering in slogans such as, ‘Mitt the Shit – Doing His Bit’, or other anti-electorate titbits dreamt up by exhausted Washington drones.
Like Britney staggering onto a Philadelphia stage under a Prozac fog so heavy she slurred a wayward welcome to the people of Rome, Mitt checked with the flunky whose name was on the tip of his policy-free tongue which part of this glorious nation he’d touched down in, to make certain his warmest of false political welcomes would not offend the Californian vote that could make or break him. ‘Future Commander in Chief of All That is Holy and Primitive’, began his aide as good old Mitt preferred the informal, ‘the people of Florida welcome you and your hardline conservative views, truly you are one person in amongst many indistinguishable from yourself. Can I have a pay rise?’. Mitt grabbed him by the throat, squeezed, then kissed him passionately, just out of view of the CBS and NBC cameras. He’d make Rob, or was it Cassandra, an offer he couldn’t refuse once the Oval Office was in his back pocket.
The crowd caught their first glimpse of the potential next most powerful man in the world as he adjusted his belt, squinted against the sun and waved in the wrong direction, for all he could see were dollars and corruption. Another aide whispered in Mitt’s ear that he might like to turn and face the crowd, only to be sacked for daring to speak before being addressed by the Mighty Mormon Mitt. Later, he’d be shot in the back of the head, the heretic, but for now Romney had to meet and greet the crowd, point and laugh a lot, embrace his family in public for which they’d pay heavily in the next life, and promise the poor his unswerving support, whatever that meant. This lying business came naturally to him though, so for once Mitt knew he was alive. This was the stuff of dreams. ‘We want change’, he began, until the autocue failed. He snarled while loosening his tie. The crowd twitched.
Nothing else came out of him. Change was the best he could do. The airwaves returned to Oprah Winfrey reruns. Mitt had never felt so alone. Nobody wanted him to hold their baby. He flew off, to Dallas maybe, furious with even God himself.