Election Costs
Robert Larsen had never been so excited in a hotel room, even on his honeymoon. Rebecca managed to coax him under the burgundy blanket, managed to prop him up against the pillows, but he would not turn off the television. With 95% of precincts reporting, it was still too close to call.
"You know they'll call us when it's time," she said again, touching his shoulder gently. "You'll feel better with a little bit of sleep."
Polling places had closed at 9, but there were fancy brand-new machines yet again, and, as nice as they looked, they were still buggy and efficiency had decreased so much that the speech planned for midnight had to be postponed indefinitely. The hotel banquet hall was still filled with people waiting for the results to be announced, but Bob had been mingling since three in the afternoon and his advisers all recommended a couple of hours of sleep.
"I'm enough immersed in the sleep of ignorance," he told Rebecca now, and she sighed. For Robert, this was more than a pun; if elected, he would be California's first Buddhist governor. Though an adult convert, he believed vehemently in its tenets and had managed to work the middle way, the four noble truths, and the eightfold path into many of his campaign speeches.
Some people questioned that he could simultaneously desire to govern and be attempting to extinguish cravings, but he explained to anyone who would listen that it was not a craving--he felt called to it.
Politics had attracted him from the beginning. He'd run for everything in school: student council, hall monitor, library aid. It wasn't until his senior year, however, running for class president, that he decided that he wanted this as a career. The potency of the idealism, the thrill of the race, the unequaled satisfaction when he began to experience the implementation of his ideas... it was a rush. Of course, he knew even then that there were drawbacks to the life. He spent upwards of $100 on printer ink that year printing fliers at home--someone had once told him that printer ink was more expensive than human blood, and after that election, he believed it. But it was worth it. Each flier had a picture of a different student with the caption "I'M VOTING LARSEN '04." They were simple, personable, effective. It was a landslide election, in Bob's favor.
Thirty years later, 98% of precincts now reporting at 3 a.m., Larsen was pulling ahead again. The frosty-haired reporter smiled at him from the TV screen, which was paper thin and touch sensitive. She brushed a strand of hair out of her eye and explained that the CNNBC network was now calling it for Larsen.
Bob just had time to let out a hoot of excitement and kiss his wife before his cell phone started from ringing across the room--it was sitting on the little breakfast table. He stood up to go pick it up, ready for the congratulations, ready for this long night to end.
There was a crash of glass and Bob fell to the floor. Rebecca screamed. Blood and little bits of brain matter were splattered all over the wall, on the carpet, on the cream-colored pillow shams.
A perfect headshot.
The assassin was caught a few hours later, travelling at 150 miles an hour down I-5. He was held at $2 million bail--Bob Larsen's blood was more expensive than printer ink.