Beer and Toking on the Campaign Trail

Considering the sun began to rise not more than an hour after my little run-in with the cardboard king and his home-deprived Lolita, there was still a great deal of work to be done. After retreating to my boxcar as if I were being chased by the conductor himself, I set about designing the most beautiful pamphlets a pre-school dropout could imagine with only a blue crayon and a mess of littered paper scraps at his disposal.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged victorious with nearly two-hundred pamphlets (scribbled writing on sugar packets and dirty napkins) bearing the slogan: "Quint McGuinley for President or he'll bash yer heads!" The scrapper began saying that perhaps I shouldn't be so aggressive at such an early stage, but I think he noticed my hand raise in the air as if to slap him again, and he immediately caught his tongue.

So, with no time to waste, I equipped the scrapper and his skank with several packets and sent them to the west side of the town, whilst I traveled east towards the coast. After a quick detour so that I could swing by the local "open 24-hours-a-day" porn shop and peruse the latest in quality entertainment, I headed directly for the first of many supermarkets that I would be visiting that day.

The first place was a fairly large establishment owned buy the Bergin Bros, or so the named suggested. There was an area directly to the left of the entrance where people would have to grab a shopping cart if they so desired, and I figured that would be as good a place as any to set up shop. I leaned against the wall in a welcoming manner, dug my hand into my jacket pocket and grabbed a pamphlet...err sugar packet if yer the picky type.

As I think back, it probably wasn't a good idea to show up at 7 in the morning. Not many people seemed willing to shop at a closed grocery store and I guess I can't blame them. Before long, though, my luck changed for the better, and a few employees showed up to open the store. I hid myself behind the shopping carts in case they would mistake me for a hobo and call the police - believe it or not, that happens a lot.

By the time everything was set up, the parking began to fill with automobiles of every sort. One of the first vehicles to park in front of Bergin Bros was a tan '87 Buick, which spewed forth a lanky old man and what I can only assume to have been his wife, for it was obvious that she was no less experience in aging than her husband. Normally, I might have advanced on her and tried to acquire myself accompaniment for that evening, but seeing as how I was there on professional business, I figured I would contain myself for the time being.

As the couple approached the carts, I rose from my hiding place and ejected my arm, practically tattooing the sugar packet of information into the old man's face. Startled, he jumped back and nearly sent his wife to the pavement, but her reflexes were apparently sharper than her wrinkled skin, for she latched onto his arm and shot me a look of both terror and what I can only assume to be longing for ole Quint.

Without even so much as a glance at the packet, the old man asked me, "What do you want? How much?" I began to think that maybe this campaign thing wouldn't be as difficult as I thought. "How much?" I asked. "Well, how much do you have?"

The old man grabbed his wife's purse and handed it over to me. I reached inside and found a petite sequined change purse that beheld a treasure of more than $200 American dollars. The way I figured it, if everyone else I talked to that day continued to donate even half that amount, I'd have a pretty substantial means for getting around the country in no time at all. I took the cash out of the purse and handed it back to the old man. "This should do nicely," I said. "You're doing your country a great service."

I did not find the look I received very obliging, but I shrugged it off thinking that perhaps I was reading into it too deeply. Either way, as the old man led his wife inside the store, I overheard him whisper something to her about "calling the cops", and whilst I saw no crimes being committed in the vicinity of Bergin Bros, I decided to depart for my next supermarket anyway. My previous run-ins with the law would fill a book, and if the cops couldn't locate any other suspects, they'd surely be willing to settle for ole Quint.

A Late Summer Night's Pipe Dream

Yaargh, I realize it's been quite some time since me last post, and for that I offer my greatest and most heartfelt apologies. But as much as I would have liked to maintain a consistent dialogue with ye via the World Wide Web, ole Quint's immune system had other plans for him. In all actuality, it comes as no surprise that I was laid up for so long. The real surprise is that I bounced back so quickly!

Let me tell you, landlubbers, tetanus is a nasty son of a bitch! I'm sure that the constant barrage of booze and drugs that I have routinely introduced to my innards ever since the tender age of 6 hasn't contributed towards my well-being, either, but I'd rather have a short, mess of a life than a long, sober, bore of one. Ah well, but that's just me.

I last left ye with the promise that I'd be running for President of the good ole US of A. Well, fear not, gentle lads and lasses, for ole Quint has been making good on that promise, despite being hard pressed to survive his many ailments. Why, just this past week I recruited a few friendly neighbors of mine to help in the pamphlet distribution.

On a particularly rough night, when sleep eluded me for longer than I would have liked, I decided to have myself a stroll down the railroad tracks. Lo and behold, there was a rather large cardboard box erected about a hundred feet to the left of the boxcar that houses me. Sitting on the makeshift patio, warming their hands on the hot flames of an impressively constructed trashcan fire, was an old scrapper and his lovely asian mistress.

Forced to duck and shield my face from the onslaught of rocks that they felt the need to pummel me with for no particular reason, I charged them like a bull on hallucinagens at a Mao Tse-tung garage sale. After throttling them good and right for attacking me in the first place, I sat them down on a tree stump, wiped the specks of blood from their lips, and introduced myself as the next President of the United States. They were quite noticeably humbled.

After the initial shock and awe subsided and their faces adopted expressions of doubt, I decided that it would be wise of me to introduce to them the logistics of my plan for acquiring the master bedroom at the White House. As I had only set about scribbling my ideas onto paper the previous evening, immediately after polishing off a particularly ticklish bottle of Nightrain with a mute prostitute named Eggla, and considering that it had only taken me five minutes to arrange my thoughts via crayon onto an empty sugar packet, I was open to any suggestions my new friends might have.

First, I figured it would be best to get my name out there. Whoever heard of someone voting for a candidate they never heard of? Certainly not me! So, I figured the best way to do this would be a tour throughout every major suburb of the United States.

My new friend, the scrapper, asked me in a rather sarcastic tone how I planned on getting around the country, being that I owned no means of transporation. I promptly backslapped him across the cheek for being so bold, and then told him that my plan is to start locally, seek representation, and then branch out elsewhere...obviously! He apologized for his rude inquisition, and then, as reparation for his brashness, offered me the opportunity to bed his mistress, which I duly accepted.

After cementing a bond with the two of them - one of physical abuse with the scrapper, and another of sexual abuse with his mistress - I decided that I would begin my ascent towards the presidency the very next morning...