Vote Early and Often

Before we could explore the certain fiasco that Other Earth promised to be, the Union members demanded that I first conduct the Shop Steward election. Since I’m never in a big hurry to attend fiascos, for my existence can be pretty much summed up as hopping from debacle to the next, I figured that any hell would do, since only hell was on the menu. It’s good for a Pen to have an accurate grasp of things.

A quick census revealed that there was a sudden rise in the FC population from sixty-six to two-hundred-twenty-seven; their names, and marks, magically showed up on the Union agreement. This included Pong and several others I had also glancingly considered but didn’t officially invent–but I guess it was another case of thinking it being enough in Saragun.

Some of the overflow were characters grandmothered in by the Boss–who often displays a buttinski attitude even after she gives me control of things; I’m certain God sneaked some noisome species aboard the Ark that Noah had accidentally on purpose forgot.

But that was only partially true. See, sometimes when you open a new realm, opportunistic Spirits (aka, “ghosts” but they hate that term), usually on the run from some other dimension, often take refuge in a new land of make believe before you can seal the border, and you must give them sanctuary. That explained about half of the ones I did not recall creating, yet were considered mine, thus FC Union members, regardless.

Actually, one of the Spirits did belong to me, in a sense. For while we were at the Spring, the Boss sent over a gold gilt presentation gavel that was presented to our late great great great great grandfather upon his retirement from the bench as a judge late in the 19th Century. It was sitting on my desk. She’d sent him over the same way that a dubious person leaves a box of Kittens on the stoop at the ASPCA, rings the bell and runs like hell. Naturally, the Spirit of my grandfather squared, Judge Jasper P. Montague, haunts the gavel; it would only be a matter of time before he showed his often charming yet somewhat unendurable personality.

At first it seemed odd that only six of the two-hundred-twenty-seven FC’s applied for the gig. But upon remembering the extreme sloth of the population, six suddenly seemed a bit high. The ballot was composed of the three FC’s who accompanied me and Renfield to the Spring, and joining Gwen, BTI and Daisy on the ballot were Queen Maab the Photobomb Fairie, a type-A Rufous Hummingbird named Poppyseed, and the newly acquired Judge.

“Great news!” Renfield said with that ever-present evil smile on her pretty face, as she entered my office with the results after the lone poll had closed. “It’s a six way tie.”

I was seated at my desk smoking and drinking hobo wine and wondering if Renfield understood the vast distance between her concept of “Great News” and the way I see it; but I figured the smile explained that she did. I knew some sort of unnatural result would come from the election and needed to steel my nerve. I wasn’t disappointed. See, I usually write out numbers, but this time I must disregard that–for only hard numbers accurately relate the debacle of election day. Somehow, with 227 ballots cast, we wound up with a six-way tie at 37.833333333 (to infinity) votes. Not as in percent, but as in votes.

“How for the love of hell did that happen?” I asked.

“It’s possible because though FC’s may cast just one vote, the Union allows that not all of a member’s vote must go to a single candidate,” Renfield said, reaching across my desk and opening my laptop. She banged in some data (and probably opened the door for some viruses) before she turned the screen to face me.

I scowled at the data. It was enough to boggle a sane mind. But there it was. The ugsome truth. Crowding in on me.

Behold an example of what I read: Drake Mallard, an FC Gander who identifies as a Duck, cast .164 of his vote for Gwen another .37 to Daisy and the rest he pissed away on Poppyseed. All the damn votes were like that, except for the candidates, who at least had the decency to vote wholly for themselves. Somehow it all piled up to 37.8333 to infinity votes for each one.

I snapped the book shut. “What about the other quark of vote unaccounted for?”

“I think it got sucked into the PDQ vortex at the Spring,” Renfield said, with that slappable smirk still on her face. “Feel free to go look for it. I’ll wait.”

“All right, wiseass, everyone says you’re the smart one–what do you suggest?”

“We call it a six way draw and make them all Shop Steward.”

“Great,” I said. “Now you want to give everyone a participation trophy. Is this an election or T-Ball?”

I guess it was T-Ball. Everyone got a trophy.

So, we wound up assembling a Shop Steward panel. From the get go there were problems. By name, the biggest problems were Boots the Impaler, Maab the Photobomb Fairie and Daisy’s addiction to adverbs.

Poppyseed the Type A Hummingbird refused to spend time in the same room with BTI, “Him being a Cat.” BTI said “That‘s profiling,” but since he said that after swallowing a mouthful of a clearly marked can of “Chickenlicious Friskee’s,” and openly shared sarcasms about “Shake and Bake, Hummingbird,” his argument rang hollow. We arranged a honeysuckle “desk” for Poppyseed on the other side of the office window, which we opened so he could hear and comment through a BTI-proof window screen.

Dear Maab the Photobomb Fairie is as charming a soul as you’ll want to meet until she’s had her fourth gin blossom. I installed a bar in my office (an atom for atom a replica of my Boss’s). Upon her fourth drink, Maab stops telling funny old stories and begins to snarl and make dark observations about everyone handy–mostly me. It sucks taking shit from a four-inch Fairie, but that’s how it goes when said Fairie is packing a loaded wand. But that situation has improved since Renfield now disarms Maab at the door. It’s a hell of a thing to watch a Tinkerbell-sized person take a gin blossom in one suck of a straw from a full tumbler several times her weight, and, aside from her attitude, neither changes physically nor ever needs to pee; but she’s a magical being, I guess that’s how they roll–especially in a realm where most of the physical laws of the universe are up for grabs.

Now, Daisy is a shining star. It’s amazing that a Fictional Character Pygmy Goat has such great range as an actor and so many off screen interests. Unlike most of the other FC’s Daisy is a hard worker dedicated to the success of the realm and involves herself in every project and works without supervision (although I’ve never encouraged that last thing). Yet she’s ambitious, and when there are only individuals looking up at your position around, one must be suspicious of the go-getters. She’s also never wrong; excels at eavesdropping, passive aggressive remarks–and when the last of the multiverse succumbs to entropy gazillions of years from now, the perceived slights remembered by Miss Cloverleaf will find a way to continue to thrive.

But the problem she presented as a Shop Steward involved her adoration for the written adverb. She doesn’t use them any more than anyone else in speech, but give her a Chromebook and she goes wildly wild, overly overboard, annoyingly annoying. As mentioned previously, the FC Pygmy Goat is known as Nature’s Stenographer. The lil hooves beat at a steady and unerring clip. That was all well and good until the fiends voted unanimously that one of the Stewards, not I, record our meetings on a Chromebook. Naturally, only Daisy wanted the recording job.

So, it went like this:

Dazingly Daisy

There were seven of us in the office: Miss Leila, Miss Renfield, Miss Gwen, Queen Maab, Boots the Impaler, the Gavel containing the Spirit of Judge Montague, and of course the brains of the outfit, me, Daisy Cloverleaf. Intensely intense Poppyseed was at his honeysuckle desk outside the window.

My desk is near the window. Close to the AMI (Adverb Mass Indicator). It’s a little round white plastic demonly demon screwed to the wall that works like a smoke detector [at Earth it is a smoke detector-LA]; it beeps when, according to Miss Leila, the prose gets dangerously adverbally. Sometimes, as I dutifully tap out the mindlessly mindless meeting events on my Chromebook, which is connected by a USB to the AMI, I cast a gazely gaze out the window at the troubled realm; I wonder wonderfully and dream dreamily.

Then the A.M.I. goes off, irksomely. Which causes Miss Leila to say, all exasperatedly:

“Day-ZEE…”

Drat.

Miss Leila continues to smoke cigarettes even though it offends most people. That’s why she does it. She lit a fresh cigarette off the burning butt of another, leaned back in her chair, put her feet up on her desk, an accidental smoke ring formed over her head as she called the meeting to order.

“How come you don’t use that gavel to call to order?” Queen Maab asked, gin already edgingly edging into her voice. It was fortunately fortunate that Miss Renfield had confiscated her wand and locked it in the wandly wand cabinet…

Damn you AMI!

“Day-ZEE.”

Drat.

“Because I’m inside it, Queen Juniper,” the Judge said, his voice hauntingly drifting from the gavel.

Queen Maab didn’t like that much and snarled menacingly. Luckily…

A pox upon you AMI!

“Day-ZEE.”

Drat.

Anyway, Miss Renfield whispered something in the Fairie’s tiny ear, which caused the imp to smile and calm down, for the moment.

BTI had fallen asleep in Miss Gwen’s lap. But Miss Gwen was widely wide awake and took the floor. “How come this production is nearly ten-thousand words old and I have had only one line till now?”

“Don’t feel bad, Gwennie,” Renfield said. “All I get to do is smile and say ‘Great News!’”

Perhaps sensingly sensing that she was losingly losing control of the meeting…

I thought I had commanded you to hell, hated AMI!!!

“Day-Zee…”

Drat.

Miss Leila smiled at me. Got up from her desk and rose to her full “height” of 4’11”. She proceeded over to me at my desk, patted me on the head, removed the AMI from the wall and asked me if I would like to kickingly kick the goddmanly goddamn thing to pieces in the Barnyard. If so, would it pleasingly please me to allow her to resume the narrative.