Rallying the Troops

“You know, it was only twenty years ago that a woman would be asked to leave her teaching job if she was pregnant. My mother had to hide it until the summer holiday came along,” Proctor said. He was sitting at a bar around a circular table with his co-workers from the Global Warming Defense League (G.W.D.L.). There was Frieda, the secretary who was underpaid and overqualified. The Volunteers, who were all a little stoned and downing the free pitcher bought with the G.W.D.L.’s meager budget. And Dr. Hobart. He was a tall man, thin to the point of needing to gain weight, who carried himself with the air of a person who would talk about anything. Proctor liked Hobart well enough, but found himself wishing he would say something at this meeting. Here it was, the night before the big fundraising rally and Hobart had only bought them a few beers and congratulated them on doing such great jobs. “Or even homosexuals,” Fried added. “Ten years ago a person could’ve been fired just for being gay.” Hobart perked up when she spoke, nodding and smiling. The volunteers were all beginning to get fidgety. Proctor supposed it was from listening to old war veterans talk about causes that had been fought and won long ago. Finally, with that strange shared consciousness that people who aren’t being paid seem to possess, the volunteers all got up and moved to the pool table. There was a brief silence as the remaining employees all looked at one another. “Do you think we should say something to the Volunteers? Like try to be on time for once or threaten to not sign their community service hours?” Proctor said. Frieda looked a little embarrassed for Hobart but only curled her finger around the beer bottle. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just tired of busting their balls about it. It’s just not like it used to be back when we were their age. Back then, people would be lined up to protest. You couldn’t stop change back then. Now, here we are working for this global warming group and I have to yell just to get a kid to show up for free booze,” Hobart said. He was leaning on his elbows with a tired look in his eye. “Well shit man, now I’m glad you didn’t talk,” Proctor muttered. Frieda stood up and went to go get another beer. “Do you ever feel like we’re just…we’re just some old vets talking about past battles? Like there is this new battle to be fought, and all we’re doing is talking about the ones we’ve already won?” Hobart asked.

Who is Dr.Hobart?

Things had not always been this way with Dr. Hobart and the G.W.D.L. Proctor had been hired as the tech guy about the same time as Hobart for the little environmental firm. About ten years ago, Hobart had resigned from a top position as a researcher with a pharmaceutical company. He had specialized in some strange branch of behavioral medication but generally refrained from ever mentioning his reasons for leaving. Being both a) a scientist and b) morally ambiguous, he seemed ripe for recruitment. At first he had been a good worker, quick to brainstorm solutions and perfectly willing to sacrifice his free time for the cause. It was when the former director left and no one volunteered to fill his shoes that Hobart began to show the signs of despair he now so openly exhibited. There is nothing quite as sad, Proctor was fond of saying, as a Liberal forced to be in an authority position. They chafe at giving orders, despise making people do things when they can relate to not wanting to, and most of all become quite lost when they have no higher power to blame than themselves for failed projects. The planet saving business was a tough one with the advent of environmental conscientiousness being ‘hip’. The different advocacy groups were now more competitive than ever. Hobart had to contend with the Sierra Club snatching donations for land conservation, P.E.T.A.’s monthly Bingo Save-A-Critter Night, and the dreaded G.W.C.M. (Global Warming Cessation Movement). Their offices were mere blocks away and the head, one T. Magnus Bordex, was fond of hosting rallies on the same days as the G.W.D.L. “For the extra PR,” Bordex would say. Hobart, when confronting his cousin who had donated twenty dollars to the G.W.C.M. rather than his own group, was asked, “It all goes to the same thing, right?” Grudgingly, Hobart had agreed. And grudgingly, Hobart had to report that funds were down and budgets were getting tighter whenever people asked how things were going. Yet Hobart was not without his brilliant moments. In a company wide e-mail, Hobart had proposed supplying community service and college credits to students who volunteered. Thus the influx of volunteers, no matter how apathetic they might be. And now one of the most important fund raisers for the G.W.D.L., one in which it was absolutely essential that they make at least five grand, was coming up. And all Hobart could muster was the question, “Do you ever feel like we’re just…we’re just like some old vets reliving past battles?” Proctor stared at him for a moment, finished his beer, and threw down a few bucks. “At this point, I like to think that the veterans could get their troops to show up on time,” Proctor replied. He walked away before Frieda came back with a fresh beer for him.

The Global Warming Party

The next morning, Proctor awoke to cloudy skies and a forecast for rain. “Great, that’s just goddamn great,” he said. He put on his sandals and customary Hawaiian shirt before hopping on his bicycle. The office (where the rally was being held) was several blocks away. Proctor brooded on how the weather would affect the rally, Hobart, and more importantly than all the rest: his job. The first few drops had already struck his head when he pulled into the parking lot and beheld a sad sight. Hobart, out alone, was struggling to piece together the flimsy stage that had been donated years ago. Proctor chained up his bike and joined him. “Damn…*huff*…volunteers are late. That band that wanted to pay is stuck in…*grk*…traffic. Frieda went home to get her acoustic guitar,” Hobart said. For a moment, Proctor wanted to scream at the man, the sky, anyone who could be blamed for the disaster he had foreseen coming last night. They snapped the final pole together, only to have the one Hobart had first connected fall out. “Are you sure they weren’t just throwing this thing away?” Proctor mumbled. After a great deal more shoving, the stage finally came together. “Where’s the P.A.?” Proctor asked. “With the volunteers,” Hobart answered. The two sat down on the stage to take a breather. “When was this thing supposed to start?” Proctor asked. “About ten minutes ago,” Hobart replied. The silence resumed as both men began to brood. Proctor worried about his job security with an environmental group that couldn’t even host a free concert. Hobart worried about the miracle it would take to save this situation. Frieda broke the silence when she finally pulled up, guitar in hand. Hobart perked up as she came near, one of the few things that ever seemed to rouse him from his quiet gloom. “Hey Frieda! Thanks for being the opening act. Hopefully, everyone will arrive here soon,” Hobart said. “Sure, Doc. Anytime. I just borrowed Kyle’s guitar,” Frieda answered sweetly. Hobart’s smile cracked a little at the mention of Frieda boyfriend, but his head still bobbed in response. She glanced at the sky and empty parking lot before joining her fellow co-workers on the stage. “So, how exactly did you advertise this thing?” Proctor asked. “The Volunteers,” Hobart answered. Frieda’s laughter at this finally brought a smile to the other two’s faces.

A New Plan

Before Frieda could even finish the second verse of ‘Paved Paradise’, the rain came crashing down. She toughed it out all the way to the end, but the empty parking lot and even emptier donation box by the stage finally defeated her. She ran under the awning to join a shivering Proctor and Hobart. Proctor was on the phone with a volunteer, yelling to be heard over the rain. “What do you mean you thought it was tomorrow? How many goddamn meetings have we had about this? Look, I don’t care how much you’ve puked, you’re supposed to be here helping! Put down the damn bong, get out of bed, and get some people here!” He slammed the cell phone shut with an exasperated sigh. Hobart stared out into the empty lot, the soaked stage, the falling rain. He shook his head and walked inside before anyone could say something. Proctor and Frieda exchanged a weak smile and refrained from following their leader indoors. “How bad is this?” Proctor asked. Frieda, in addition to being secretary, therapist, moral support, cheer leader, and head organizer, ran the books for the G.W.D.L. “Oh, in the sense that we didn’t really expect to make much money anyways, it’s not so bad. But, on the other hand, our budget is shot now. After these next paychecks, there isn’t going to be any money left unless Hobart asks for more funding,” Frieda answered. Considering they hadn’t had a successful event in some time, both knew that getting anymore Federal grants would be a hard sell. Proctor found himself wondering if Bordex and his G.W.C.M. thugs were laughing at them all right now. No show ups, no cash, and soon there would only be one Global Warming Advocacy group in town. “I’m worried about Dr. Hobart. This is hitting him pretty hard,” Frieda commented. Proctor snorted and kicked at a puddle forming by the awning. “That guy has fallen off the wagon. He can’t lead us anywhere. Hell, he can’t even think up a way to get a few people to show up and save the goddamn planet. Someone needs to tell him to get himself together. In fact.” Proctor spun around and went inside, while Frieda still watched the rain. Marching straight into Hobart’s office, Proctor found himself almost tripping over a stack of papers. All around the room were notes and drawings, a marker board covered in formulas, and the very center of the messy office turned lab was Dr. Hobart and a bottle of whiskey. At the sight of Proctor entering the room, Hobart held up his glass in a toast. “Ah yes, just in time. Before you say a word, Why not wish me good health? I have decided to take a leave of absence and let the group continue without me for a while. And in my place, a clever relative of mine is going to come over to help run things,” Hobart said. Proctor was at a loss to respond. Hobart was going to hand control over to a total stranger while they were right in the middle of a budget crisis? He didn’t know whether to think the man was insane or merely running away. “His name is Karl Cuckler,” Hobart declared.

Hobart Disappears, Cuckler Appears

Proctor left Hobart’s office more confused at his morbid behavior than when he had entered. He had wanted to walk in and demand Hobart get his act together or resign, not actually have him resign. Nor was he a hundred percent certain Hobart had the authority to just install some new leader to the G.W.D.L. He was definitely certain that there wasn’t technically a way to overrule the decision. A restless night and a stormy bike ride back to work the following morning had Proctor wondering just what would await him inside. There was Frieda, typing something on the computer, a few volunteers stuffing envelopes, and Hobart’s empty office. Before he could even ask a question Frieda handed him a printed out e-mail. “Dear Staffers, after the events of yesterday, it has come to my attention that I no longer have the ability to lead this organization. As my parting decision, I wish to install a new kind of leader. He has a head for business, rational thinking, and leadership that I have found lacking in both myself and other people in this political sphere. Please hear him out before judging him either on his political views (no matter how different they may be from your own opinion) or his strange habits. As Lao Tzu once said: “There are many roads to wisdom.” Please feel free to contact me via e-mail, since I will be out of town for a while. Cuckler should be arriving in the next couple of days.” And that was that. Proctor sat down at this desk and began updating the website, Frieda bustled around managing affairs, and the Volunteers snuck off for a smoke session. The next day was equally peaceful. As was the third, fourth, until on the fifth Proctor began to wonder if the whole thing was just some sham. Hobart didn’t seem like the type to make up some silly lie, but after a whole week Proctor had no choice but to call a meeting. “Alright folks, as you all know Dr. Hobart hasn’t been back for some time. I know this might be hard for some of you. Well, for me and Frieda anyways, but it’s about time we started talking about the future for the G.W.D.L. Right now, that future is,” Proctor said before pausing at the sight of a strange man entering the office. He was hunched over and fat, wearing clothes that seemed to barely fit him. His hair was a grayish brown and there was an odd bald spot when he cocked his head just so. Strangest of all, was that the men bore a resemblance to Dr. Hobart. In a loud voice the stranger spoke up, “Ladies and Gentleman, that future has never been brighter!”

The New Cuckler Deal

Everyone in the office turned to see who had spoken. “Hello, my name is Karl Cuckler,” said the stranger. He was carrying a briefcase and several rolled up documents as he strode to where Proctor stood. Stepping next to Proctor, Cuckler gave him a slight shove on the shoulder and a nod to sit down. Proctor gritted his teeth at being pushed away so lightly, but was also a little bit relived. Maybe Hobart really had delivered them a miracle, albeit a mildly annoying one. Unrolling a chart, Cuckler tacked it against the wall and began gesturing with his hands. “Now, let’s not beat around the bush. Hobart has gilled me in on all the juicy details about you kids. The first thing will be the volunteers. You miss another event, I revoke your credit and you’re outta here. You keep taking extra long lunch breaks, I start giving you piss tests and reporting them,” Cuckler said. His voice had a slow deep boom to it, like you could hear it even if you put your hands over your ears. Everything he said had the curious sensation of feeling like a ‘fuck you’ and ‘do this now’, so that one jumped to obey and dislike him at the same time. One of the volunteers raised their hand and stammered, “But…but I thought we were volunteers.” Cuckler gave a grinding, snarling laugh that was distinctly unfriendly. “Not anymore. You are now all unpaid interns,” Cuckler explained. The interns all nodded. “Which brings me to a greater point. Most of you are probably aware that the budget is more fucked than a dominatrix at a republican convention (pause while Cuckler laughs, one of the interns coughs). Well, in order to get more funds I’ve had to play around with some rules along with the Federal Advocacy Act. We’re changing the name from Global Warming Defense League to Globo Warriors. I thought it had a little more kick, y’know? We are now technically a brand new and unrelated firm to the old one, which gives us access to the one time start-up Federal Bonus of 10,000 dollars,” Cuckler explained as he gestured. Frieda’s hand had shot up at some point during this but Cuckler did not seem to notice. Proctor’s mood had shifted from annoyed to gratified to outraged so fast that he was unsure whether to raise his own hand or just speak. Cuckler kept talking. “This is only going to last us for so long though. We are now shifting our primary goals from distributing pamphlets and ‘awareness’ to focusing purely on fundraising. We need to assess who our greatest competitors are for donations and how we can undermine their support. We need to be having more rallies, ones that target specific demographics beyond college kids who don’t vote.” More hands had gone up. Cuckler was gesturing at a series of color coded bullet points, seemingly unaware of the impending inquisition. Proctor finally just barked out, “Excuse me, but what is all this money going to be used for, if not spreading ‘awareness’?” Cuckler turned, gave another teeth grinding laugh and said, “Saving the fucking planet, kid.”

We're Getting Kegs?

The meeting dragged on and on, quickly becoming the longest one that Proctor had ever sat through for an environmental agency. One by one the hands went down as people gave up on trying to have their opinion be heard. When they had finally gone through the last pie chart, Cuckler gave everyone an odd salute then went straight into Hobart’s office. He closed the door behind him. “I just can’t believe…this can’t be legal!” Frieda exclaimed. Proctor struggled to remember what it was exactly that Cuckler had explained that would be so illegal, but found that the meeting had been so long he could no longer particularly remember what had been discussed. “Did you mean…like with the rallies he wants to have?” an intern asked. They seemed equally baffled with the combination of charts, numbers, and A.D.D. “Not just the rallies! He’s using Article G-79 to excuse the use of alcohol at a sponsored event, but the entire point of that bi-law is to allow orphanages to get free soda for parties. Just because they use the word ‘beverage’ doesn’t mean he can presume it’s referring to beer!” Frieda explained. Proctor still could not remember when Cuckler had ever said they were going to start getting free beer. “We get to have keggers?” another intern asked, followed by a barely audible, “fuck yeah!” Frieda stood up now and resumed the spot that Cuckler had stood in. “Weren’t any of you listening during that meeting? He’s changing everything! We’re using tax money to fund parties, attacking other environmental groups for their donors, and we don’t even know what all this money is going towards! I don’t know what Dr. Hobart was thinking when he brought in this…this cousin of his, but he’s doing everything wrong!” Frieda said. There was silence as everyone looked at her, though Proctor thought he heard an intern whisper to another ‘kegs’. Proctor stood up and patted Frieda on the shoulder. “Look, I know this is strange for everyone. God knows after the fourth hour of pie charts on Generation spending habits, I thought I’d made a mistake. But the fact is, this organization hasn’t had a successful event in a year. We were a waste of money before Hobart left and I say we give this new guy Cuckler a shot. How much worse could he be then we already are?” A few of the interns nodded and only Frieda looked to still be genuinely upset. She stormed over to her desk and busied herself with the day’s mail which had just arrived. Before Proctor could even settle in his own chair, she gasped and stormed over to him with a torn open package. Inside were some bumper stickers, apparently ordered by Cuckler during the previous week. They read, ‘Fuck the Animals, Lets Save Ourselves! Join the Globo-Warriors’.

Getting Things Underway

These bumper stickers proved the first of many strange duties for Proctor. Cuckler began by having him create an online store for the Globo-Warriors and selling strange merchandise. T-shirts featuring a gory red planet Earth with the phrase, ‘Don’t Let It Happen Here, Globo-Warriors’ Or a poster with a giant fist pounding into the ice caps, the fist labeled ‘Car Exhaust’. All of these strange, mildly threatening products, were sold on the Globo-Warriors website. How Cuckler expected people to know about this stuff and buy it was again through Proctor. He spent his afternoons going on to weblogs and chat rooms, bragging about the products and enticing teenagers to buy them. Proctor would’ve complained about it more, but the second thing Cuckler had done after changing his webmaster duties was give him a raise. The interns became equally involved in the newfound commercial aspects. When they weren’t selling the shirts and posters in the quad at the local college, they were wearing them around other protest rallies. It wasn’t long before members of P.E.T.A. and other groups became interested. Liberal minded students began asking about the Globo-Warriors and how they could get involved with the ‘war effort’ as Cuckler had told the interns to call it. Bordex, the head of the G.W.C.M. and rival global warming firm, had even sent an e-mail to Proctor asking him just what the hell did Hobart and the G.W.D.L. think they were doing. Cuckler, upon being forwarded it, told Proctor to delete it with no reply. Frieda remained unhappy with the changes Cuckler was making but like Proctor she had received both a raise and a decrease in her workload. The interns now fielded calls and stapled reports, leaving Frieda to have a longer lunch break and get off work earlier. Although she may have found reason to complain with the strange checks and budget tweaks that were streaming out of Cuckler’s office, she was suddenly confronted with a much more complicated problem. Cuckler had a thing for Frieda. “I just don’t know how to tactfully tell him I have a boyfriend, y’know? He’s always asking if I want to join him for lunch or meet up with him after work. How many times do I have to say ‘No thanks’ before he gets the hint?” Frieda complained. She and Proctor were chewing on a pizza that had recently arrived. Cuckler had ordered an entire one for himself, which he promptly carried into his office with him while he took an important call. “I don’t know what to tell you. I can’t even imagine eating a meal with that guy. No wonder he’s so big, he eats a ton every day,” Proctor said. “You want to hear something else? The other day, I could hear the T.V. coming out of his office. He was listening to FOX news,” Frieda said.

The Boob Statue

Within two weeks of taking over the newly founded Globo-Warriors, Cuckler had doubled their budget, improved intern attendance, and generally impressed everyone with a remarkable capacity to get things done. Bright and early on a Monday morning, Proctor came into work amazed to see several interns already busily folding the new pamphlets: ‘Sierra Club: Are there better places you could be donating your money?’ Frieda was chewing on a pen while she studied a budget print-out which was covered in her notes. From over her shoulder Proctor could spy only question marks and circled numbers. “I’m not just complaining that we’re getting funds for extremely grey area Federal sponsorship, Proctor. Look, he took out a tax break by listing the office as both a residency and place of business. What are we going to do if someone comes here looking to see who ‘L.B. Jeffries’ is and why does he live at the Globo-Warrior residency? And the expenses are just as weird! Why is there a 5,000 dollar deduction for ‘Masonry’? He even used a Federal Grant for the Arts to pay off most of it,” Frieda said. Proctor shrugged and was about to say something when an intern neither of them had ever seen before appeared. “You dudes talking about the new statue in the bathroom? It’s fucking awesome bro! Just got installed this weekend,” the intern said. There was an awkward moment while Proctor stood a bit dumbfounded before he finally asked who the kid was. “Name’s Alan, bro. Delta Iota Kappa for life! Got this gig as part of my community service for public intoxication,” explained Alan while he made an inappropriate gesture with his tongue. Proctor marched straight into the bathroom and to his surprise did indeed find a new addition to the bathroom. A life size replica of a woman’s face and chest had been positioned right next to the toilet. The rest of her body was merged into the wall but from the way it was placed a guy of average height would be able to grasp her chest and nipple firmly. Proctor was stunned. He marched out of the bathroom to go talk to Cuckler but found him walking right into the bathroom as he was walking out, “Cuckler! If this is what all the money you’re sneaking around with is for then you can just…I mean, are you insane? Is that where all the money is going?” Cuckler’s eyes narrowed and the jowls of his face seemed to quiver a moment while he stared Proctor directly in the eye. He didn’t talk while Proctor yelled, didn’t do anything except look, but somehow Proctor suddenly felt like Cuckler was going to eat him alive. For just a moment Proctor’s mind reeled from the sensation of dominance. Before Proctor could say anything, Cuckler’s face changed again. “I’m glad you asked, Buddy. We’re going to be having our new and sure to be successful fund raiser this weekend. All the money is going towards getting a real sound system and band. Was there anything else?” Proctor shook his head and Cuckler gave him a pat on the shoulder before going into the bathroom.

A New Kind of Rally

Over the next few days Proctor’s embarrassment at his outburst kept him from asking about the rally. At he had been delighted when his job really meant just doing what he was supposed to. Under Hobart, Proctor had found himself doing anything and sometimes everything to help keep things running. With Cuckler, he really was just the I.T. guy. When he finally couldn’t take not knowing anything except the bare minimum, Proctor was shocked to find out Frieda knew even less than he did. “I only know the address and date, but that’s only because I had to post it for the website. Are we even sending out invitations?” Proctor asked. Frieda shrugged in response and both went to see if one of the interns knew. “Beats me bro, Cuckler said it was on a need to know basis. The only thing he asked me to do was make sure my whole frat knew,” Alan said. Proctor had heard Cuckler say they were expanding their target audience, but a fraternity? The only thing Frieda could find was several sizable cash withdrawals from the accounts and records of a large loan, neither of which she had been informed of. Next to each in the books was the terse explanation ‘party favors’. There was little anyone could do except wait until the appointed time and show up. Proctor hitched a ride with Frieda, who was bringing her boyfriend Kyle along. The address was at a place none of them had ever heard of and Kyle ended up getting them lost several times. Frieda finally found it, an hour after the start time, by hearing the noise. “It sounds like a heavy metal band,” Kyle said. The car pulled up to a wholly unexpected sight. Hundreds of college students, many with their shirts off, were jumping and shoving to a leather clad metal band. Most of them had beer cups in their hands. On either side of the crowd were booths selling overpriced booze. Over the stage itself was a big banner that read, ‘Chill the Planet!’ The three strangers stepped out of the car and simply stared. “What kind of rally is this?” Proctor asked. No one could hear him over the noise, as the band hit the chorus once again. “Cause we’re all gonna burn, BURN, BURN! Chill out, Chill out, stop all the driving or I”ll tear your skull out! AAAAAAAH!!!” screamed the lead singer. Frieda had to put her hands over her ears. Proctor grabbed an intern carrying a tray of multi-colored drinks and got her to point to where Cuckler was. Way ahead in a roped off V.I.P. section, the big man himself was sweating and watching the show. He was standing around a growing pile of empty beers cups, not even bothering to refill his old ones. “Hey Cuckler! How’s it going?” Proctor yelled over the noise. Cuckler turned and gave them a brief smile to Frieda before noticing Kyle. “Who the fuck are you?” Cuckler asked while pointing at Frieda’s boyfriend.

Celebrity Sperm Raffle

“Hi, my name is Kyle. I’m Frieda’s boyfriend?” Kyle suggested. Cuckler blinked and shot him a nasty look, very similar to the one he’d given Proctor a few days earlier. “What the Hell are you asking me for?” Cuckler grumbled. He waved them over to the V.I.P. keg and handed them each a custom plastic cup. Written in red over the black cup was the phrase: ‘Globo-Warriors: Party Against the Machine 2006’. “This is amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many people come out for a Global Warming Rally. How much money have you made?” Kyle shouted, still trying to make conversation. Frieda was beginning to look uncomfortable at Cuckler’s drunken stare as Kyle spoke to him. “Weird, not many girls date shorter guys. What’d you want to know kid? How much cash? The beer alone will pay off the loans I took out with some change. The real money is gonna come out of the raffle though,” Cuckler said. He motioned for everyone to stay put while he approached the stage. The rock band finished up their song as Cuckler dragged his tubby carcass up to the microphone and began waving. The audience cheered as he took the mike. “Are you folks ready to save the FUCKING PLANET?! I saaaid, ARE YOU READY TO STOP SOME GLOOOBAL WARMING?!” The kids ate it up. They were screaming and waving shirts, girls were flashing breasts, and countless fists were pumping the air in agreement. “Alright, now first up I’m proud to announce the winner of the celebrity sperm raffle. The winner, of their very own, one hundred percent fresh and one hundred percent real, fresh from the loins of NONE OTHER THAN CHUCK NORRIS HIMSELF! The winner is…number 195239!” Cuckler screamed. The audience applauded while one guy began jumping up and down screaming for joy. Proctor had to suppress a laugh while Frieda gasped in horror. She turned to one of the other kids in the V.I.P. ring and asked him how much he’d paid for a raffle ticket. “Ten bucks, what’s it to you? Chuck Norris’s fucking sperm? You know how many people would kill for that shit?” the kid explained. Proctor repressed the urge to ask him how he was certain Cuckler hadn’t just been fondling the boob statue and making the prize himself but thought better of it. Judging by the number of disappointed faces in the audience, it looked like the idea had worked. “This shit is awesome. I always thought saving the planet was just chicks with armpit hair and liberals. Gay shit like that. But this is fucking awesome!” the kid continued. Proctor barely heard him as he watched Cuckler hop off the stage to usher in the second part of the night’s entertainment. A Hummer was being driven through the crowd, stopping right in the middle, where several interns hopped out and began distributing hammers. Within minutes, the audience had ripped it to pieces.

Hitting Little Girls

The rally was an enormous success. Chuck Norris’s sperm, once all the funds and costs were accounted, netted the Globo Warriors half a million dollars. It was the most successful fundraiser held by a liberal activist movement that year and immediately ranked in the top ten. When Frieda and Proctor came into work on Monday the phones were already blowing off the hooks. The Governor called to congratulate Cuckler on finally turning things around. Did he want to do lunch sometime? A senator rang in to ask if he might be able to help out with any new projects. Proctor checked the website’s stats and saw that the Globo Warrior hit count had quadrupled since the rally. “Well, we’re rich and popular. Now what?” Proctor muttered. Cuckler staggered in an hour late with an ice pack on his head and an annoyed look on his face. “No calls and no visitors,” he said. This wasn’t unusual for Cuckler in the morning, who usually devoted that time to watching T.V. and reading the paper. He took a mint from Frieda’s candy dish and slammed the door behind him. For several minutes business continued as usual in the office. At the sound of a clearly faked cough, Proctor looked up to see Bordex and a crying little girl. Although it didn’t shock Proctor that the head of the G.W.C.M. had made a child cry, what was surprising was that Bordex had taken her to their offices to display it. “I was coming by here to discuss this little piece I found outside the Alpine Coffee Hut,” Bordex said as he threw down a pamphlet entitled ‘Ten Things the Global Warming Cessation Movement Lies About’. “But on the way over, I had the misfortune to see what I’m assuming was your Boss, Cuckler, run this poor little girl off the road on her bike,” Bordex said. Upon hearing the part about herself, the small girl began to cry more hysterically than ever. Frieda jumped up and took the girl to her desk, offering her a mint and some water. Bordex simply stood there, arms crossed, with a slight grin on his face. Proctor stood uncertain for a moment, despising both Bordex but not wanting to bother Cuckler either. Finally, he walked over and knocked on the door to Cuckler’s office. “I said no visitors!” Cuckler’s voice boomed. “Uh, sir, Bordex is here and he has a little girl that he says you ran off the road in your car. I think you should come out here,” Proctor said. Cuckler opened the door and immediately glared at Bordex. “She was practically in the damned road. Besides, she fell in the bushes. What’s the big deal?” Cuckler said. Even Bordex was stunned that one.

Bordex Gets His Own Rally

Upon seeing Cuckler’s lack of remorse, the little girl began to cry all the more hysterically. “Now see here Cuckler, you can’t just say that. For God’s sake, she’s a child!” Bordex said. Cuckler glared at him with that now familiar dominating look but Bordex only glared right back. Frieda took the girl over to her desk, still doing her best to comfort her. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Cuckler finally asked. “I believe her bike is fairly damaged at this point. You should at least give her some money to buy a new one,” Bordex responded. Cuckler stormed back into his office and quickly appeared with a check, handing it to Bordex who knelt and gave it to the girl. Cuckler almost seemed to have an aversion to her, as if he didn’t want to acknowledge or look at this person he had hurt. Finally, Frieda agreed to take her outside and call her Mom on the cell phone. Bordex remained, smiling now. “Well, well. Karl Cuckler hits little girl. I can almost see the headlines now. Your little operation, despite its success, might not be able to survive something like this. What a shame if it got leaked to the wrong people,” Bordex said lazily. “Last I checked, blackmailing and bribery wouldn’t look too good on your bill either,” Cuckler shot back. Bordex leaned against Frieda’s desk still holding that grin of his. Proctor went back to his own chair but could only pretend to work while the two men talked. “Fair enough, Cuckler. But there is something you can give me that doesn’t have to be so scandalous. Simply put, whatever voodoo you used to turn this two-bit environmentalist dump into a half million fund raising machine, I want it. Specifically, I want you to organize a rally for me, showing me each and every step of the process,” Bordex explained. Cuckler seemed about to laugh at this ridiculous proposal. Proctor hoped he would, he hoped that Cuckler would chew Bordex out for suggesting this ridiculous plan and just kick him out. What did it matter if Cuckler had a shitty reputation? This was about saving the planet, about stopping Global Warming, and the individual could never hinder the group when that was its goal. But Cuckler only chewed on his lip for a minute, pondering Bordex’s proposal. “Alright. I’ll have my interns work with your volunteers. But let’s work out the details first. Step into my office Bordex,” Cuckler said.

Strangers

Bordex proved to not be the only stranger who began to frequent the Global Warriors office. Soon all manner of coat & tie clad people were waiting in the reception area. Frieda had to assign an intern just to keep up with the influx of phone calls. Some of them asked strange questions, like could Cuckler attend a hunting trip that weekend or would he be up for a power lunch on Tuesday? Proctor was busier than ever fielding e-mails and keeping the site up to date with all the new activity. Hundreds of Environmental Groups around the country were asking for Proctor to link to their site in the hope of getting just a small slice of their success. He received one strange e-mail in particular, someone’s secretary mixing up the web e-mail with Cuckler’s, asking about this new project ‘Prop 415’ that was all the buzz in Washington. “You think he’s trying to do something in politics? I mean, really starting to use all this money to make some changes in the capital?” Proctor asked Frieda over lunch. “It’s possible. I saw one of the interns with a message that had ‘A. Gore – Urgent!!!’ scurrying by yesterday. I just wish he’d tell us what this is all about,” Frieda said. But neither could get anything from Cuckler, who still insisted on maintaining his need-to-know policy. One day Cuckler came in looking very odd. It was strange because his tie was in order and his short wasn’t covered in sweat stains. He began ordering interns around to clear out old boxes and pamphlets from the spare room. Soon, after much vacuuming and dusting, Proctor was surprised to discover that there was a table in the room. Even chairs. “How did you know this was back here? I always thought this was our storage closet,” Frieda asked as Cuckler put up a painting of two dogs duck hunting. “I had, ah, Hobart fill me in on a few things. Talked to him on e-mail the other day,” Cuckler answered before shooting her his best impression of a smile. “You talked to Dr. Hobart? Oh, how is he? I’m surprised he hasn’t come by more often. Tell him everyone misses him at the office,” Frieda said. Cuckler’s face darkened for a moment and he stared at the painting for a moment. The two dogs were barking at the scurrying birds, their owner far in the distance laughing. “I don’t think Hobart will be back Frieda, but he’ll get your message,” Cuckler answered. He gave a brief nasal laugh at the last part before leaving. On his way out, he gave Frieda’s butt a firm pat.

Frieda Gets Uncomfortable

“Wait, ok, so you mean like slapped your ass and told you to give him head?” Proctor asked Frieda moments later. Cuckler had headed out the door and been followed by most of the interns. Frieda was the angriest Proctor had seen since Bush’s opening up of the Alaskan Reserves for drilling. “No! He just slapped my ass and said Hobart was never coming back. What does it matter what he did afterwards? That is inappropriate conduct and, an-“ Frieda stammered. Proctor sat her down and gave her a glass of water. “It’s like it just won’t stop. He finally quits asking me out to dinner and now he’s always buying me these little gifts. Look, a sausage gift basket. I told him I don’t eat meat and he just went nuts. Like I was yelling at him because he did eat meat,” Frieda said. Proctor looked at the gift basket, still unopened, and saw that it was indeed comprised mostly of pork products. Taped to it was a note that said, ‘To the best Secretary at Globo-Warriors, a little sausage surprise.’ “I didn’t know you were a vegetarian,” Proctor said, unsure what he could add or do to help. Cuckler’s success almost made things more difficult because now no one could question him. “Because I don’t my fucking rub my vegetarianism in people’s face. I just don’t eat meat. That’s it. I’m not on a fucking mission or anything. But every damn time there is always somebody who has a problem with it. Like I’m trying to make them feel bad. Cuckler shoving these stupid sausages in my face and telling me to just try one. Right, this piece of packaged shit is going to be any different from the rest of the meat that grosses me out.” Proctor didn’t have the heart to point out that Cuckler may have been insinuating something much cruder with the gesture. Before he could say anything more another strange man in a suit stepped out of the bathroom. “Wow, he wasn’t kidding about that boob statue. It really just helps things go smoother,” the stranger said. Both Frieda and Proctor stared at him. “Well, tell Cuckler I’d love to hear more about this Prop 415 business. This could just be the thing to help get everyone on the board organized on this global warming stuff,” the stranger added, looking totally unconcerned with the two glaring employees. He dropped a business card on the desk, took a handful of candy from Frieda’s jar, and walked out humming the chorus of ‘When the Saints Go Marching’. Over and over again. On the card was inscribed, ‘International Committee of Car Manufacturers’. Every major car industry in the world was represented in that group. And they had never once uttered a word to an environmental lobby about curbing emissions. “What the fuck is Prop 415?” Frieda yelled.

The G.W.C.M. Disaste

Frieda stood and marched into Cuckler’s office. Inside were empty boxes marked for T-shirts and Bandana Delivery. All around was the usual mess of sticky notes and papers. On the board was written in big letters ‘Prop 415’ followed by a list of all the major car manufacturers. Most of them were crossed off. Looking over Cuckler’s desk there were several unmarked empty pill bottles and a blue flyer. Proctor came into the room just as Frieda was looking over the advertisement. “Almost none of the interns are here. Alan said they’ve all gone to help get Bordex’s rally going. Jesus, I can’t believe we weren’t even told that we were helping to host another fund raiser,” Proctor mumbled. Frieda sat down on Cuckler’s desk and handed the flyer to Proctor, the color draining from her face. The flyer was blue and written in big letters across the top was, ‘NO BLOOD ALLOWED Global Warming Rally’. Below was a picture of two interns wearing blue bandanas and giving gang signs. “You can’t be serious,” Proctor said. He checked the empty boxes and on the floor and sure enough, they were listed as ‘dark blue’. The rally was going to turn into a gang war. “Are they both clueless that he doesn’t know about Kryps and Bloods? Jesus, it even says that it’s being held in the G.W.C.M. parking lot,” Proctor said. He was already out the door and heading for his bike when he turned around to ask Frieda to drive. “This is such bullshit! No one talks about anything with us. Cuckler doesn’t give a shit about what we think. The only reason he even pretends to listen to me is because he wants us to fuck me. This is such…corporate bullshit!” Frieda screamed. Proctor just shook his head and dragged her out by the hand. “Right now, we have to stop this rally before it gets out of control. And I need you to drive,” Proctor ordered. They jumped in her car and sped down the road towards Bordex’s Global Warming Agency. A variety of emotions ran through Proctor’s mind. A little part of him was glad that a prick like Bordex would finally screw up. Another part was angry at Cuckler for letting all of this happen. This same part had a suspicion that Cuckler knew damn well what he had instigated and was doing it to get back at Bordex for threatening him. But most of all, a part of Proctor was worried about an organization that, despite their differences, he knew still fought for global warming efforts just as he did. But when they pulled up, it was already too late. The G.W.C.M. headquarters were on fire.

Pandemonium

Ambulances were pulled up along the curb while streams of Environmentalists ran this way and that. Several police officers were yelling into megaphones, their jobs changing from keeping the rally under control to keeping the rally safe. Someone was being loaded into a stretcher. A woman was crying out for her friend. For just a moment, Proctor felt that he could not believe what was happening in front of him. Then he could believe it had all been an accident. But the moment passed and there was only the thing before him. “Frieda, go see if everyone is okay by the ambulances. I’m going to find Cuckler,” Proctor said. On the ground were dozens of blue bandanas, part of Cuckler’s grand idea for a new rally for Bordex, one that included an excessive number of references to how no blood would be present for the show. Proctor walked by a girl screaming into her cell phone, “Yes, it was a fucking drive-by! Then the building caught on fire and everyone just started running. Mom, PLEASE come pick me up!” There was a guy tearing off his dark blue clothes and screaming for everyone to do the same. The fire trucks pulled up and began hosing the G.W.C.M. headquarters but it didn’t look like there was much left of the little building. Proctor had always found the place to be intimidating back when they were drawing away all of Hobart’s donations. Now, it just seemed like a loss. Proctor finally found Cuckler pouring whiskey into a diet soda via a flask. He was in a business suit and his face held a blank expression. Proctor slapped the soda out of his hand and stared Cuckler in the face. There was no signature glare to meet him. “I can’t fucking believe you would do this. A group that even works for the same cause. Is this some kind of revenge thing against Bordex?” Proctor demanded. Cuckler’s face was pale and unsure. “I haven’t done anything. Protests meet violent resistance all the time. These just happen to have been gang affiliated. It’s all…Proctor, we have to remain vigilant against violence to our cause,” Cuckler mumbled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an orange pill bottle. Cuckler popped the last three inside of it and threw the bottle on the ground. “What the fuck are you taking? Xanax so you can sleep at night? Jesus Cuckler, you encouraged this. You know damn well the reason this rally was attacked had nothing to do with the planet. You just wanted to get back at Bordex for embarrassing you!” Cuckler held up his hand for a few moments and said nothing. Then he turned and looked Proctor in the face. The glare was back and as silencing as ever. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you have a problem with the way things are run, we can discuss it in the office tomorrow,” Cuckler said icily before walking away. Proctor glared at the ground in silence for a while before noticing where the orange pill bottle had landed. Scrawled in marker on the side was a cartoon elephant.

Prop 415

Frieda was suddenly nowhere to be found and the police were soon ushering everyone away to create a crime scene. Proctor found himself walking home alone, wondering what was left to be done for the Globo-Warriors. Hobart had brought in a whole new kind of environmentalist to change things at the office and now that change had become malignant. Cuckler was a monster, of that Proctor had no doubt. He slept poorly because of the growing fear that he would have to quit his job. Whatever else could be said, Proctor did not want to risk being involved with an even worse scheme Cuckler might create. He came into work and immediately noticed that Frieda was nowhere to be seen. A few interns were manning the phones but even they looked frightened. “Dude, were you at the rally last night?” a disturbingly frank Alan the Intern asked. Proctor nodded and walked straight to Cuckler’s office door, which he pounded on until he heard movement. When Cuckler’s head appeared he looked irritable and smelled of whiskey. “I want to talk about how things are run,” Proctor said. The interns had all stood up and gathered behind Proctor, so that everyone at the office was looking at a beleaguered Cuckler. “The rest of you too, huh? Well, what happened last night was a tragedy and I’m sorry that members of our society cannot appreciate the merits of a peaceful protest. Bordex approved every last suggestion I made, in writing, so you can take it up with what’s left of the G.W.C.M. about how they run things,” Cuckler said. “If you had bothered to ask any of us we could’ve told you that you were going to instigate a gang war! That guy Bordex doesn’t know his head from his asshole, but surely you knew better!” Proctor said. A few of the interns chimed in their support and Cuckler finally came out from behind the door. He looked like he was squaring up for a fight. “Oh fine, so we can make every little decision based on whether or not my IT guy agrees. That won’t take forever!” Cuckler countered. “It’ll take longer, yes, but it’ll also keep you from screwing up like this!” Proctor yelled back. Cuckler looked at each face in the office and finally relented. “Fine, I’ll take that into consideration for the next big rally we have,” Cuckler said. “Good, now you can tell me something else. What is Prop 415 and why are car companies so interested in it?” Proctor asked. Cuckler looked genuinely shocked for a few brief moments as his mouth hung open. Before he could answer Frieda burst into the office crying. She looked as if she had been up all night. “Bordex was hit last night. He’s in the hospital, I, I stayed up with him. They still don’t know if he’s going to be okay,” Frieda said. Cuckler’s mouth snapped shot and he whirled back into his office. Before the door closed he yelled, “Prop 415 is none of you damn business, Proctor!”

An Odd Request

Everyone was silent as they stared at the slammed door to Cuckler’s office. Frieda gave one last sob before saying, “That is fucking it.” She marched over to her desk and started emptying the drawers. Proctor only hesitated for a moment before he went over to his desk and began doing the same thing. “You’re right Frieda. You’re absolutely right. There isn’t any other choice. He won’t tell us what’s going on, he won’t let us help make decisions. This is just outrageous,” Proctor was talking for himself more than anyone else. The interns all scattered, some shuffled back to their desks but even a few of those walked to the door. Frieda herself was quiet, not responding to anything Proctor was saying as he continued to talk. “Maybe we can get some work with somebody else,” Proctor said as he finally looked up to see Frieda holding a package before her. “It’s…it’s from Dr. Hobart!” Frieda exclaimed. She tore it open and found a short letter and clear plastic bag. Inside were two plain, unmarked white pills. ‘Dear Frieda, I have a strange favor to ask of you. By now, you have already begin to realize that Cuckler is given to strange behavior. He is not always well, and sometimes forgets to take his medicine. Would you please find a way to slip this to him so he can recover some of his senses? All will be explained soon enough.’ Even Proctor agreed it was Hobart’s strange scrawl after looking the letter over. “But what does it mean? He can’t really expect us to slip some drug to Cuckler. How could we do it without him noticing?” Proctor protested. Frieda eyed the two pills and handed them to Proctor. “Listen, we both want to know what Prop 415 is and maybe if Cuckler just took his meds we could find out. What if it’s another disaster as big as Bordex’s rally? One person is already in the hospital from all this Proctor. We have to do it,” Frieda said. Walking over to Cuckler’s office, Frieda gave it a slight knock while looking over to Proctor to make sure he was ready. “Oh, Mr. Cuckler? Could you come out for a second? I just needed some help with some, ah, forms that I don’t understand,” Frieda said in her sweetest voice. There was a grunt and some shuffling before Cuckler stuck his chubby head out the door. He seemed a bit surprised at the friendly mood that had filled the room but could not say no to a smiling Frieda. He followed her over to the desk, all the while grunting and guffawing over her supposed helplessness. Like a flash Proctor ducked inside, dropped the two pills in Cuckler’s morning glass of milk and was back by his desk before Cuckler could even shoot him a glare. Frieda miraculously figured the problem out before anyone could understand what it had been. Cuckler marched back to his office and slammed the door behind him.

Too Liberal

Proctor and Frieda both eyed the door, the same one they had stared at so often because of the two inhabitants that had once resided in there. Hobart’s habit of leaving the door open, even when all could see him stressed and agonizing over the G.W.D.M.’s failings, had become something of an annoyance to Proctor. Why had the man had to put it all on display? But Cuckler’s slammed door was almost equally disturbing. Never knowing if the man were gloating, benevolent, ignorant. Half the time Proctor thought Cuckler was a genius and half the time he thought he was a moron, all because that damned door never opened to show them. “Should we knock?” Frieda asked. Proctor shook his head and resumed his position at his desk. He opened the desk drawer and begin pulling his things out. Whatever he had done to Cuckler by slipping him those pills, it didn’t change who the man was or what he had already done. The door was still closed and Proctor wondered what he had been expecting. Frieda went over to her desk as well, but idled over her things. They had both been working to stop global warming for almost five years, almost all of that time under Dr. Hobart. Yet in just a few months with Cuckler they had accomplished things that no Environmentalist would ever have dreamed. And whatever Prop 415 was, it was big. And it had come from a place they had both helped to run. A sound came from out of the door. Perhaps Cuckler had taken his time to finish the drink? It was a low moan, guttural at first then it transformed into a slow whine before it just sounded like a great big sigh. Frieda began to go to the door before Proctor stopped her with his hand. “I want to see what this change is really all about,” Proctor said. They both waited and stared at the now quiet door. And just like that, it opened again. Cuckler was pale and looked as if he was sweating profusely for some reason. He looked at Proctor intensely/ But it seemed strange because Proctor didn’t feel even a hint of Cuckler’s old glare. The eyes were soft and a little bit mopey. “I think we might’ve overdone the dosage a bit. I might end up becoming…too liberal now,” Cuckler said. But his voice didn’t have the same rasp anymore, it didn’t sound anything like Cuckler. It sounded like someone else entirely. Frieda finally spoke for everyone, “Ho-Hobart? Is that you Dr. Hobart?”

Hobart's Return

“Yeah, I guess you might as well call me that now. Jesus, I only meant for you to slip me one pill,” the man Proctor had been referring to as Cuckler for almost three months said. His belly was still as enormous but the posture was all different. A casual slouch while leaning on Frieda’s desk, though Proctor had never noticed it before, was a pose that Cuckler would not have been caught dead in. And the voice was no longer a half-snarl. But most of all the eyes were soft, almost too soft. “What…what’s the meaning of all this? You disguised yourself as a giant fat asshole so you could do illegal things with the firm? We all ju-, wait, are you crying? Hobart, this is not the time!” Proctor said. Hobart was blubbering now, the jowls that had hung almost threateningly on Cuckler now just waddled pitifully while Hobart sobbed. Frieda walked over and patted him on the shoulder. “Oh, everything is such a mess now. Bordex in the hospital, all those other environmental agencies, and now, now they’re about to launch an even bigger mess,” Hobart said as his sobs renewed. A chill went up Proctor’s spine as he guessed what ‘a bigger mess’ might be. “Hobart, you have to tell us what Prop 415 is,” Proctor said. It took the crying a while to subside but finally Hobart walked back into the office and returned with a folder overflowing with papers. “Prop 415 was the reason I got into the global warming scene. It’s a filtering system I invented back when I worked for that pharmaceutical corporation. It can essentially remove all CO2 emissions from any car when installed in the engine,” Hobart said as he passed out e-mails and memos outlining the specifics. Each one Proctor flipped through was addressed to a car manufacturer or politician. “But Hobart, that’s incredible. Why didn’t you start Prop 415 sooner?” Proctor asked. “Because it also reduces the fuel efficiency of the car by about 2/3. I was able to get the car companies on board because I made contact with some people in the fuel industry and now all they see is the profits,” Hobart explained. Frieda took a step back from Hobart with a horrified look, which only seemed to renew his crying. “But that would devastate the world’s economy! It could even start a damned war worse than Iraq. Why would Cuckler do this?” Frieda demanded. “I did it Frieda. Well, as Cuckler I did it. It just seemed like the fastest way of fixing global warming. These advocates are hosting a fishing get-together to start spreading the word in the conservative party today. But, I just might have an idea on how to stop it, if I could just stop feeling so bad and crying. Damnit, I really took too big a dose,” Hobart blubbered.

Saving the Day

“Is that what’s making you cry so much right now?” Frieda asked. Hobart nodded and she went to get him a glass of water. “It’s a drug that makes you become more open-minded and easy-going. I made it to act as a counter to the drug I’ve been using to think more conservatively,” Hobart explained. He was moving around now, the first effects of the drug melting away as he started to plan how to stop Prop 415. Hobart returned to his office and came back with a pill bottle and an invitation to the Fishing Get-Together. “You mean the drug that turned you into Cuckler?” Proctor asked, starting to get a grasp on a situation that seemed painfully obvious to him now. “Turned me into Cuckler? I mean, whatever you want to call it. The drug has a lot of unfortunate side-effects, one of which made me gain all this weight. I just decided that the best way to inspire a sense of change and fear was to pretend to be someone new,” Hobart said. His voice was starting to become odd again, a slight slur taking it over. “Well, what are you going to do now?” Frieda asked. “I’m gonna sneak into that Fishing Party, slip the liberal pills into something, and get all those guys to realize, y’know, the error of their ways,” Hobart said. The slouch was increasing in arc. He was almost to the door when he realized that Frieda and Proctor were not following him. “That’s, that’s almost as bad as having a ‘No Bloods Rally’, Hobart. Drugging elected officials is a federal offense!” Frieda said. “Hey, hey now. Chill out. I’ve already broken a ton of Federal laws, so what’s one more?” said a very carefree Hobart. “Shit man, half the funding we’ve gotten has been misappropriated. Fucked an intern, lied on pamphlets, there’s even a statue of a boob in the men’s bathroom. What’s dosing a bunch of conservatives with a drug that’ll make them liberal?” Hobart said. He raised his right arm, fist clenched, and marched out the door. Proctor half-tried to stop him, but couldn’t figure out a way to explain how stupid this plan was beyond what had already been noted. Hobart’s car screeched out of the parking lot, honking the horn and waving for them to follow. “I’m not sure who was more insane. Cuckler or Hobart,” Proctor muttered. Frieda nodded and went over to the desk to get her car keys. “C’mon, we’ve got to put a stop to this,” she said.

Stopping the Saving of the Day

Frieda’s little fuel efficient car sped them out of the city and into the suburbs. 7-11’s gave way to Wawa’s, whitewash boards became siding and then the houses were simply hidden behind great expanses of foliage. The image of an obese Hobart (Cuckler?) with his fist raised was still frozen into both their minds. “Is it possible for a person to actually be too liberal? Not that I haven’t met people who were really excessive, but isn’t what Hobart is about to do just crazy talk? Stuff from the drugs? He’s going to drug an entire party of Republicans into doing, I don’t know, into just thinking like him. But what if the drug works? Is it wrong to believe that those people should think exactly the way we do? Wouldn’t it make the world a better place if everyone in the conservative party stopped being conservative?” Frieda was talking without looking at Proctor, saying it more to herself than anyone else. “Cuckler once told me that he wanted to save the planet. And I believed him. And I think Hobart genuinely wants to stop Prop 415. But neither Cuckler or that guy going to this party have ever, once, made a good decision on their own. Maybe those rallies were a success, maybe we did raise a lot of money, but how long could it last? Bordex and the drive-by at the environmental rally were so outrageous at first. But now, when I see Hobart acting just as crazy on these other pills, I think I finally get it. When you only think one way, it’s only a matter of time before you’ll screw up. Liberal or Conservative,” Proctor said. A quick check on the invitation and they turned down a winding road. As they pulled up to a gate Frieda asked, “Wait, so we should let him dose the Republicans with the Liberal Drug?” The guard didn’t even blink when he overheard what Frieda said. She showed him the invitation and the little car was waved through. “Well, yes. Except it would be a lot better if they took it voluntarily. And I guess we’d have to take the conservative drug, just to make it fair,” Proctor said. The party was being held at a very elegant boat house. Some sort of club, by the look of the sign that read ‘Lucky Bastard Fishing Society’. They followed a trail of white balloons and the sound of clinking glasses until they came out onto the veranda. On one side all of the women were gathered while all the men were on the other end of the lawn. No one was fishing. And there was no sign of Hobart. “What the fu-“ Proctor said. “No time, you go to the boys end and I’ll go to the girls. Find Hobart!” Frieda ordered.

Proctor and the Boys

Proctor’s first reaction when he came over to the men’s side was to feel out of place. This, in turn, meant he looked out of place. A few glances from the older conservatives made this all the more apparent to Proctor, whose hands shot straight into his pockets and his gaze locked on to the most inconspicuous object he could find: a fishing boat. Before long a waiter offered him a drink, which Proctor immediately took in one gulp then grabbed another, which immediately helped him fit in. He glanced around but could still find no sign of Hobart anywhere. “Hey, so you like the boat?” a voice from behind asked. Collar upturned, plaid pants shining in the sun, stood a tall man with blonde hair. “Oh yeah, she’s a real beauty. Go fishing often?” Proctor stammered. “Not as much as I’d like to. So good to meet another fishing enthusiast. Come introduce yourself…?” Proctor didn’t have time to ask why it’d be hard to find other fishermen at a fishing club, instead saying, “Proctor” and being led towards an even larger group of upturned collars. “Yeah, that one over there is the current girl I’m banging. Model. But did I ever tell you about the time I banged a girl on my Dad’s private fishing boat? Oh yeah. I’m like sixteen and I meet this girl, super hot, said she was a model. So I nailed her on the poop deck, how funny is that?” said one of the upturned collars. For the oddest moment, Proctor was reminded of Bordex bragging about funds he’d raised. But either way, he was in short supply of stories about having sex with models. After a few more minutes of listening, Proctor turned to the guy who’d taken him aside from before. “So, what do you think of this Prop 415 business? Pretty far fetched, huh?” Proctor asked as subtly as possible. The stranger, who’d never told Proctor his own name or introduced him to anyone, blinked and then took a step forward into the circle. “Well, I think Prop 415 is just awesome. We get the environmentalists off our back, we get fuel usage up. I really think this Cuckler guy is doing some amazing things by finally finding a way that these two lobbies can work together. Hell, the money made just by mandatory installations will be enough for plenty of fishing trips.” The model fucker had been de-throned. Proctor wanted to slap himself for bringing up the very thing he was hoping wouldn’t be discussed here. “Oh, those are definitely perks. But it’ll sorta create economic chaos if we start consuming oil that much faster. Even from a financial point of view, won’t that make profits sky rocket then crash?” Proctor said. The man’s face drooped just a little and he stepped back. The space was empty for Proctor to speak now.

Frieda Makes a New Friend

Frieda was having very different luck with the female half. Her first impulse was to go mingle with the women who seemed more her age. “So, I finally got hired. It’s just romance novels, but still, it’s a modeling job!” she overheard a girl declare. The circle of women remained closed while Frieda did her best to slip in. Finally, one woman turned to run to the bathroom. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before. What do you do?” clucked one of the younger girls. Frieda was about to say that she worked for an environmental firm, but realized this might not be the best impression. Fortunately, someone answered for her. “Oh my, you must work for one of those outdoorsy magazines. You know, I’ve always wanted to appear in one of those. Are those clothes still from the shoot?” Frieda’s initial reaction was to be flattered, then offended, then unsure what the correct response was. She ducked away as the women went back to their clucking. Wandering over to the bar, she served herself from the giant bowl of red punch. An old woman approached from behind and offered Frieda a shot of gin from a flask she kept in her purse. “Well, you’re certainly not from around here. And please tell me you’re not a model,” the woman said. The old woman introduced herself as Sandra and took Frieda over to where a circle of much older wives were hiding behind the boat house. Some had cigarettes, others stiff drinks, but all seemed to having a good time. “Now the only thing about this Prop 415 business is that it can’t possibly last. We burn up all the oil and suddenly there’s no product left. That’s the damned thing about the oil business. We’re trying to consistently keep making money, not just make a lot all at once,” one of the oldest women chimed to the circle she was standing in. Frieda did a double-take. Did these old wives really already understand the problem with Prop 415? What if Hobart didn’t need to dose them at all? “This is great. I work for Dr. Ho-, Mr. Cuckler and he really wanted to pass the bill to make those filters mandatory. But I’m so amazed you all understand that it just doesn’t make any sense in the long term, no matter what your position,” Frieda said. The old women all turned and a few laughed. “Well, one can’t be a model forever. So you’re an environmentalist, I presume? All these big scary conservatives freaking you out?” asked one women. Frieda gave her best smile and shook her head. “Well, I’m all for stopping global warming. Can’t stand this goddamned heat. My husband makes all his money in the gun industry anyways,” Sandra piped up. A few women looked annoyed and turned to form their own circle. Their husbands incomes being slightly more precarious because of liberal meddling. “That’s the damn thing about vice. If you’re going to choose one, you simply must pick one you’re going to disapprove of as well,” said Sandra.

Hobart Arrested

The reason Frieda and Proctor were having so much trouble finding Dr. Hobart was that he did not actually make it to the party. He left his invitation at the office, which he didn’t even realize until he was already driving around the suburbs in the general vicinity of where he thought the party might be at. Unfortunately, he was on the opposite side of town from where he should be. The overdose of liberal pills was slowly starting to take other tolls on him as well. He simultaneously wanted to call Frieda and tell them they’d have to drug the party themselves, call them for directions and at the same time still hadn’t solved the problem of not having a phone. When he finally found a pay phone he put all of his change into it without reading the directions, which meant he lost it all once he realized that he’d left the phone number in the car. When he walked into the nearby drug store to ask for change, the clerk looked at him blankly and told him she couldn’t just give him change. Hobart found this perfectly understandable and was back in the car driving around. By the time he’d gotten down the block, he realized he should’ve just asked her directions and saved himself the entire original problem. Obviously, the pay phone had deceived him. The problem became even worse because Hobart didn’t turn around, deciding that he would instead find yet another gas station somewhere up the road. All this despite the fact that the entire time he needed more gas and he could’ve just gotten it when he was first asking for change. When he finally did find another gas station, Hobart made yet another mistake. He used one of Cuckler’s Credit Cards that had been used as a two-way between several of his more obscure government transactions. Obscure enough that the I.R.S., in lieu of several strange reports about a gang connection inside the Federal Environmental Agency, had flagged the card should it ever be used again. Which it was, because Hobart figured the Government would understand the need for gas so he could drug the Republican fishing party. Which they did not. Especially when the squad car, alerted by the I.R.S. to detain a ‘potentially armed and dangerous suspect’, found him and were told about said plan to drug party. Just as Frieda and Proctor were winding down what had proven to be a fun day at the ‘Lucky Bastard Fishing Club’, Frieda found a voice mail on her cell. Hobart was in jail for misuse of Federal funds and using a false alias to obtain them.

Out of Context

Time, like sheep counting themselves be counted, slowly passes after Hobart’s arrest. Frieda eventually assumed control of the Globo-Warriors by popular demand, Proctor making an able secretary and Hobart found minimum security to involve far too much free time. The ‘Lucky Bastard Fishing Club’ party proved to create far more connections for Frieda than she could have imagined. Proctor learned a great deal about soliciting sex from models. Predictability and expectation proved once again that they are not the same thing, they just tend to come to the same conclusions. As always to any generalization there are curious exceptions, this one being a surprising little scheme by Proctor after the Prop 415 drama blew over. The idea came to him as he used the boob statue to help him relax and pee. A few patent papers were signed by a very puzzled Hobart on the way to his squash lessons at minimum security. Some very unknown pharmaceutical companies began to fund the Globo-Warriors. And suddenly some curious drugs came out on the market. Specifically targeted towards those showing ‘clinical obsession with political agendas’, the drugs began to find customers in a wide variety of places. Corporations began having their Public Relations experiment with the liberal inducers to create a balanced image. Liberals suddenly became stunningly efficient at organizing and executing their agendas as their leaders began to dose up on conservative stimulants. As Canadian companies begin to cheaply copy the drug and distribute it on a massive basis, the entire nation became fascinated with “seeing how the other side lived”. Liberals admitted that maybe they’d been a little over idealistic about some things. Conservatives, grudgingly, acknowledged that perhaps narrow mindedly focusing on one goal didn’t always work for the best. Profits dropped, general happiness remained the same. Profits increased, general happiness still remained the same. Perhaps strangest of all, an unprecedented number of unilateral bills began to pass through Congress. The President, despite using the power of veto numerous times, was continually voted down by 3/4. Politicians were elected based on their ability to perform the job and help the community. The forest and the trees were separated, combined again, then named entirely different things. Hobart, still in prison for the first (as all firsts must inevitably suffer), spoke little to anyone as he watched the changing world. He sent out only one brief e-mail.

Hobart's E-mail

I suppose you are wondering why I did it. Why I dosed myself up on some crazy drugs to try and run my advocacy group better. Back in the days when I still worked for the pharmaceutical industry, I had to sit in on Congressional hearings before speaking on behalf of my own industry. While waiting for my turn to speak, a bill was being wrapped up. It was on allocating Federal Funding for more school buses, so kids in a wider district could attend better schools. I hardly even paid attention because at first I figured everyone would just vote ‘aye’ and move on. And yet the Bill did not pass. I stared at the stern, grey haired senators as they numbly doodled into their pads while the liberal people pleaded to pass the bill. I’d later find out that those against it were looking out for their own projects. Promised votes to constituents who had helped them get elected. At first, I was horrified at that kind of power. But as my own frustrations grew while running my own advocacy group, I kept thinking how amazing it’d be if someone could just guide that power in the right direction. Using a combination of anti-depressants and ADD medication, I was able to create a drug that simulated the degree of focus, emotional distance and distrust that enabled me to think conservatively. There were some curious side effects: binge eating and irrational aggression, among others. I adopted my new identity with the aid of my gained weight initially to just help get some Federal Funding. But as I dosed on the drug more and more, I found a sort of freedom. An ability to really and truly say that nothing else mattered except stopping global warming. To say it was some dark, malevolent half of my personality would be a lie. The drugs opened up a part of me that I thought didn’t exist, a part of me that I even grew to like. There were not two men in one body, but rather one man with two bodies. The pills did affect my judgment to such a degree that while on the conservative drug I could not convince myself to take the liberal ones. I sent the package with the pills in one of my moments of lucidness, before I got swallowed up in the paranoia and confidence that I could fix everything that was Cuckler’s mindset. But even that attempt at fixing things seems to have been poorly judged. I wanted to be conservative to save the planet just as much as I wanted to be liberal to save the planet.