Fly on the Loser’s Wall

Sitting in the loser’s room, I noticed an intoxicating attitude sweep through each advisor seated in the chair. You won’t know my name, know my mistakes or my achievements. But I was there. I swear. 

As one advisor began laying out a plan, spreading memos, proposals, and draft executive notes, the air became lighter. Electricity flowed from each word coming out of the advisor’s mouth. We were charged and ready to shock. One poor bastard walking in could have been electrocuted. 

“We can use Defense, Homeland Security, really any number of agencies,” the advisor said. “We need to preserve the evidence.”

“In a secure location,” another advisor chimed in. “Our secure location.”

“If we do not move now, we will lose this opportunity. We’ll have the election stolen from us.”

Bingo. The explosives were primed. All that was needed was the president’s approval to smash the plunger and ignite the charges. At least, that’s what everyone in the room thought. As legal advisors, not policy wonks, chimed in, the weight of defeat began to sap the air of energy. 

“There’s no legal recourse. I don’t care how much narrative control you have. If you move forward on this, any more than this conversation, we’re fucked.”

Even the threat of annihilation can’t stop an electric charge. Like Lazarus moving with the spirit of a defibrillator strapped to his chest, the president marched on.