It was just before nightfall when I heard scratching behind my closet door. I ignored it for the creaky floor, which tends to make strange noises this time of year, and went back to writing. But suddenly it happened again, yet this time much louder and ugly - like a hoot owl shoved in a blender, it was a mixture of long nails clawing the wooden door and a high pitched squeal with a mouth full of broken glass. I picked up the large Smith & Wesson .460 Magnum laying on the bookshelf and proceed towards the door.
I had been out of my house for the past seven hours getting my Jeep fixed from a blown seal. Oil was pumping out of the engine at an astonishing rate as I drove down the highway at the constant speed of eighty. Oil was being blown all over the exhaust and causing a cloud of gray smoke. The cars behind me were swerving - trying to past me where they would yell slanders and shake their fist and drive on ahead. I made it to a service station without an once of oil left . . . But I'm getting sidetracked, and only a fool would do such a thing.
With my right hand holding the gun tightly and my left proceeding to open the door, I held a calm assurance that whatever, if anything, was behind my door would not put out a strong fight. I felt like a polar bear getting ready to bite the head off a baby seal. In a swift move I opened the door and aimed the cocked .460 towards the bastard's head.
"What the hell?" I muttered. Was I on cocaine? I couldn't be sure. I shut the door and went back to writing. Horrible hallucinations were following me. Too much CNN, I thought. I could have sworn, and I'm sure you're not going to be ready for this either, but I thought I actually saw Hillary Clinton squatting in the floor of my closet crying. I rubbed my eyes and grabbed the hash pipe sitting in the upper right hand corner of my desk. I lit it and took a nice, long draw. Only a dope fiend would believe what I saw, so why not at least be high and ride this strange wave out.
Soon the door crept open and Hillary walked out behind me. "May I use the restroom?" She asked in a soothing and almost rhythmic tone that I've never heard from her in the media. "Yeah, it's down the hall on the right." I said before catching myself and trying to block this ridiculous delusion. I have tripped before. Talking to ceiling fans and playing golf with Bill Murray are just a few of the instances that profoundly stand out at the moment. They seemed real, I assure you, but were burrowed deep into my mind. Like a dream state taking place right before your very eyes, not actually living and breathing as I never shook Bill's hand and the fan was never able to pass around the bong. But I digress, never has my subconscious mind created Hillary Clinton right before my eyes, walking around and crying hysterically in my house. And the moment when I heard the toilet flush I knew Hillary was indeed right here with me on this ill-fated night.
"Jesus, what the hell are you doing here?" I yelled at her. I had put the gun down moments before - being the kind-hearted gentleman that I am.
"It got too bad up there," She said with a quivering voice. "My campaign is in shackles. I had to go somewhere."
"But why the hell did you come here!"
She couldn't answer me. She just kept rolling her eyes around my room and mumbling. I couldn't call the cops, what would happen if I were, in fact, having an intense schizophrenic moment? I shutter at the thought of being schizo, but there are times when the human brain decides to take a nosedive off the deep end. And who am I to argue that? Some get rich and others get sent to the asylum. Anyway, I'm rambling again . . . I didn't want her looming around here any longer than necessary, so I decided to drive her back up to New Hampshire myself. And with a bit of luck, we would make it before sunrise.
I tossed my leather messenger bag over my right shoulder and pulled Hillary along behind me. "Where are you taking me?" She said in shock. "I'm taking your rotten ass back to New Hampshire." I yelled. "You're no good around here!"
With her in the passenger seat, I started the Jeep up. My oil pressure was reading 50; I had no worries about it making the 14-hour drive (by driving the proper speed limit). 800 miles. "I hope you have change for the toll roads." I said pulling out of the driveway. "Cause God knows I sure don't!"
I've never been a supporter of the Clintons. They were always too slick for my taste (and that is in no way a sexual innuendo). By the time we passed Bristol and on the great stretch of highway known as 81, I began to ponder what other politician I'd rather have sitting next to me, but I soon brushed the idea aside because it was already surreal beyond belief that Hillary was right here sleeping in my car. The thought had cross my mind countless times on how easy it would be to pull aside and dump her body somewhere along the road. Hell, I wouldn't even have to find a ditch! If anyone discovered Hillary Clinton on the side of the road somewhere in the depths of rural Virginia, her life would be ruined forever. And why not take it one step forward and just throw her body out right now. I don't even think she's wearing her seatbelt - so why not just open the door and push her out? Let her boney carcass skid across the payment at 80 miles per hour! Goodbye Hillary and hello Waffle House.
Ignore these ugly thoughts you bastard. She is helpless as a dingbat and she needs your help. I'm sure every hero hated rescuing certain people, but it was called upon them to do so. Besides, I am an Eagle Scout, and it was my service and responsibility to help people when they need it - even if she looked like a bulldike and was a political monster.
But back to the idea of what other politician I'd rather have with me right now on this ill-fated night. If it were Bush, he would currently be sitting on the side of the road by now. Hell, I wouldn't have started up my car for him. But as far as a more decent politician . . . I can't think of anyone.
We were right beyond the Mason-Dixon line when a thirst for strong drink fell upon me. My passenger was awake and starting to talk about policies and her rebound in Nevada. "Good," I said. "I'm not typically the betting type, given my nature in political journalism but, I feel that you have a chance at winning and I kind of hope you do." It was a total lie, but I wanted to shut her up. "I've got to pull over for gas," I continued as I brought the Jeep down from a steady 75 and pulled into a BP station sitting conveniently next to a liquor store. It was around 10 o'clock and we still had another ten hours to go.
While Hillary was in a manic state back at the house, I took the liberty of snatching her American Express card from her purse. "Fill up the car," I said while proceeding towards the liquor store. "I'll be back in a minute."
"I can't fill up a car." She growled.
"I'm not your husband or your cohorts," I yelled sharply. "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. Fill up the goddamn car."
I kept walking towards the liquor store in fury and rage. Why anyone would support a pompous bitch like her, I would never understand.
I gathered the goods and slapped the card on the table without thinking first. I had over 500 dollars worth of liquor and was getting ready to charge it to Hillary's credit card. Oh well, it was strictly survival at this point. Eat or be eaten.
"Oh, give me a break! You think I'd believe this card to be real?" The bald man behind the counter said without hesitation.
"What?" I replied. "Is there something wrong with my card?"
"Hillary Clinton? Sir, you can't fool anyone with this."
"Hey, can you come over here for a second." I said, motioning him over to the window. "See that woman out there trying to pump gas. That's my wife. I am Bill Clinton, you bastard, and I demand this liquor to be charged to this card!" I poked him sharply in the chest and forced him to go back behind the cash register and do his job.
With the tank full and the backseat loaded down with liquor and beer, we were back on the highway. "What did you get?" Hillary muttered as she turned around in her seat. "Here you go." I said, helping her to a half-gallon jug of Wild Turkey. She gave it a menacing look but shrugged and took a deep sip. "There you go," I said grinning. "You look more relaxed already! At the current pace, we'll be in New Hampshire in 4 large bottles and a 12-pack from now."
"We're are doing a very illegal and unjust act to the law." Hillary replied.
"Churchill was an alcoholic and Kennedy was a sex fiend. You'll fit in fine in Washington if you keep this up." I assured her. "Besides, I am the Law!"
The alcohol was taking hold and Hillary was sounding more and more like an ill-fated sorority girl. I chuckled at her nonsense and soon felt a calm drift come over my body. For the first time in my life I actually liked Hillary Clinton. She was squalling wildly like a suckling pig - a demented swine with no qualms for the common American except when it came to quick polls and a photo op. Much less the hard-working Wino Americans, like myself.
"Hot damn!" I hollered out in a glorious tone. "We are champions, Hillary. Iowa and the rest of the nation might find you repulsive, but not I and the decent American's out there!"
". . . And Jesus!" She shouted.
"Yes. There may be flies on them and us, but there are no flies on Jesus! We've got divinity on our side, the stars are in alignment for us tonight."
I finished my bottle of Chivas and in a quick motion hurled it out the window. It burst into a million sharp pieces like a glass bomb. BANG! Hillary went crazy with joy and I had to wait for her to calm down. Along with the explosion of the bottle came a sharp idea from my mind. "Wino" and "Swine" were just what we needed to win the preliminaries. And before I could even grasp the twisted brilliances of such an outrageous idea, I had already blurted it out to my cohort sitting next to me. "Yes!" She said laughing. "We'll storm through the states in triumph."
I slapped her with the back of my hand across her side. "Don't ever mention triumph. It's affiliated with Hitler and Death! We shall rise but not in the shadows of the corrupt and evil. We will take over Washington and use leather whips on the Bush Administration. Tonight, you and I form our own political force, known simply as the 'Swino Party.'"
She laughed uncontrollably. "Ha-ha, yes!" She cried. "The Swino Party is the only effective way to beat the opposition."
"We'll squash them like roaches." I said with my heart racing.
"We'll kill the ones who eat us." She yelled.
". . . And eat the ones we kill." I added.
I now had my body turned around looking for a bottle of Korbel to celebrate this event when Hillary suddenly let out a deafening scream.
"Tyler, it's the cops! Hide the liquor."
Now both our bodies were turned around trying to hide our evidence in brown bags.
I turned back around just in time to notice the two cops sitting on the side of the road with their cluster of police lights flashing.
"Ah, do not worry." I said. "They are not out to get us. This thing would be going crazy by now." I pointed to a brand new Cobra XRS 9930 radar detector sitting on my dash. "This thing has 12-band detection along with 360-degree protection."
The night continued to unravel around our twisted good times and I never thought Hillary had an ounce of fun anywhere in her soulless body. But she did.
Our fun started to wither away just by the time we passed the New York skyline. The bright shimmering lights anchored to the great phallic symbol, the Empire State Building - a monument to the proud dream of potency that is the spirit of New York, danced away as I got on I-90 and drove across Massachusetts. Hillary calmed down and finally drifted to sleep with a half-drunken bottle of Hypnotic still in her lap. I was sucking down a Guinness and "Blister In The Sun" was playing on the radio.
When I'm walkin' I strut my stuff, man I'm so strung out.
I'm high as a kite I might stop to check you out.
Body and beats I stain my sheets I don't even know why
My girlfriend she's at the end, she is starting to cry.
Let me go on like a blister in the sun.
Let me go on, big hands I know you're the one.
Indeed. Nothing else could explain the situation I was in better than the Violent Femmes.
Back while we were driving through New York, Hillary was going on about how much she's helped her state. There was great pride in her voice and for a second I agreed that she was decent politician. NO! Jesus Tits, man. Get a grip on yourself. Hillary Clinton is and always will be a cunt. Nothing more. Nothing less. You like the drunken Hillary, not the straight-edged bitch Hillary. I faught hard to bring her down from a pedestal my mind had sat her on. I started grabbing all the liquor and booze from the back seat and throwing it violently out the window. Cars behind me were swerving and running off the road. Liquor and huge hunks of glass where going all over the place. Busted out tires and shattered windshields. There was no way I could keep drinking with this rotten bitch riding with me. Soon we would be in New Hampshire and Hillary would be campaigning again for the same twisted shit that her husband companioned for eighteen years ago. Her policies are dated and she has no want for change. It's as if the Clinton-Bush regime will continue on until the end of the American dynasty, when China finally conquers the western world. They've been waiting for 4,000 years and they are in no hurry!
I slam my hands into the steering wheel and yell out towards the deprived Hillary sleeping next to me. I should run us both off the road into a horrifically wonderful blaze.
21 Year-Old Holds Hillary Clinton Hostage
-
Burned Carcasses
Found in Massachusetts
Get a grip on yourself. Drop her off at the hotel and let it be. Thomas Jefferson would be proud.
We were about to enter Manchester city limits when Hillary woke up refreshed. "No Hangover, eh?" I said cautiously. "No." She replied. I could tell she was back to her awful self again. The car was silent as we drove closer to the hotel.
Not soon there after, I pulled up to the Marriott were Hillary claimed she was staying. Her campaign bus was outside but it wasn't like I didn't believe her, or cared really. There was awkward silence and then she finally spoke.
"Tyler," She said reluctantly. "Who are you voting for?"
I knew the question would come sooner or later and I was simply in no mood for sleep-deprived bullshit.
"Barack Obama." I replied.
"Oh why? Why him after all the fun we had?"
Clinton had morphed back into her woman-like figure, where she tried to be kind and gentle - like the day before when she broke down in tears to tell the public that she wasn't some sort of evil robot with no emotions. I had to tell her the truth.
"Because he speaks of hope and decency in American Politics - something not touched on since Robert Kennedy."
"He can't get things done. I get things done!" She said trying to sway me.
"That's the problem." I continued as I got out of the car and opened her door. "You say 'I' instead of 'We' and that's why people like Barack. You are nothing but a relic of the nineties, a shadow of Bill, and because of that you'll not get the votes needed to win and you will loose."
She held back emotions this time and got out of the car. No thanks or kind jesters were exchanged - just a brisk walk towards the hotel lobby without even looking back.
I shrugged it off and got back in the Jeep. Driving back towards Tennessee with the sun now shining brightly in the sky, I should've dumped her body on the side of the road and stopped by Waffle House instead.
Conclusion.
Hillary ended up stealing six percent from Barack thanks to her dramatic act the day before. There is more alcohol sold in New Hampshire than any other state, which might explain why she won.
I had been out of my house for the past seven hours getting my Jeep fixed from a blown seal. Oil was pumping out of the engine at an astonishing rate as I drove down the highway at the constant speed of eighty. Oil was being blown all over the exhaust and causing a cloud of gray smoke. The cars behind me were swerving - trying to past me where they would yell slanders and shake their fist and drive on ahead. I made it to a service station without an once of oil left . . . But I'm getting sidetracked, and only a fool would do such a thing.
With my right hand holding the gun tightly and my left proceeding to open the door, I held a calm assurance that whatever, if anything, was behind my door would not put out a strong fight. I felt like a polar bear getting ready to bite the head off a baby seal. In a swift move I opened the door and aimed the cocked .460 towards the bastard's head.
"What the hell?" I muttered. Was I on cocaine? I couldn't be sure. I shut the door and went back to writing. Horrible hallucinations were following me. Too much CNN, I thought. I could have sworn, and I'm sure you're not going to be ready for this either, but I thought I actually saw Hillary Clinton squatting in the floor of my closet crying. I rubbed my eyes and grabbed the hash pipe sitting in the upper right hand corner of my desk. I lit it and took a nice, long draw. Only a dope fiend would believe what I saw, so why not at least be high and ride this strange wave out.
Soon the door crept open and Hillary walked out behind me. "May I use the restroom?" She asked in a soothing and almost rhythmic tone that I've never heard from her in the media. "Yeah, it's down the hall on the right." I said before catching myself and trying to block this ridiculous delusion. I have tripped before. Talking to ceiling fans and playing golf with Bill Murray are just a few of the instances that profoundly stand out at the moment. They seemed real, I assure you, but were burrowed deep into my mind. Like a dream state taking place right before your very eyes, not actually living and breathing as I never shook Bill's hand and the fan was never able to pass around the bong. But I digress, never has my subconscious mind created Hillary Clinton right before my eyes, walking around and crying hysterically in my house. And the moment when I heard the toilet flush I knew Hillary was indeed right here with me on this ill-fated night.
"Jesus, what the hell are you doing here?" I yelled at her. I had put the gun down moments before - being the kind-hearted gentleman that I am.
"It got too bad up there," She said with a quivering voice. "My campaign is in shackles. I had to go somewhere."
"But why the hell did you come here!"
She couldn't answer me. She just kept rolling her eyes around my room and mumbling. I couldn't call the cops, what would happen if I were, in fact, having an intense schizophrenic moment? I shutter at the thought of being schizo, but there are times when the human brain decides to take a nosedive off the deep end. And who am I to argue that? Some get rich and others get sent to the asylum. Anyway, I'm rambling again . . . I didn't want her looming around here any longer than necessary, so I decided to drive her back up to New Hampshire myself. And with a bit of luck, we would make it before sunrise.
I tossed my leather messenger bag over my right shoulder and pulled Hillary along behind me. "Where are you taking me?" She said in shock. "I'm taking your rotten ass back to New Hampshire." I yelled. "You're no good around here!"
With her in the passenger seat, I started the Jeep up. My oil pressure was reading 50; I had no worries about it making the 14-hour drive (by driving the proper speed limit). 800 miles. "I hope you have change for the toll roads." I said pulling out of the driveway. "Cause God knows I sure don't!"
I've never been a supporter of the Clintons. They were always too slick for my taste (and that is in no way a sexual innuendo). By the time we passed Bristol and on the great stretch of highway known as 81, I began to ponder what other politician I'd rather have sitting next to me, but I soon brushed the idea aside because it was already surreal beyond belief that Hillary was right here sleeping in my car. The thought had cross my mind countless times on how easy it would be to pull aside and dump her body somewhere along the road. Hell, I wouldn't even have to find a ditch! If anyone discovered Hillary Clinton on the side of the road somewhere in the depths of rural Virginia, her life would be ruined forever. And why not take it one step forward and just throw her body out right now. I don't even think she's wearing her seatbelt - so why not just open the door and push her out? Let her boney carcass skid across the payment at 80 miles per hour! Goodbye Hillary and hello Waffle House.
Ignore these ugly thoughts you bastard. She is helpless as a dingbat and she needs your help. I'm sure every hero hated rescuing certain people, but it was called upon them to do so. Besides, I am an Eagle Scout, and it was my service and responsibility to help people when they need it - even if she looked like a bulldike and was a political monster.
But back to the idea of what other politician I'd rather have with me right now on this ill-fated night. If it were Bush, he would currently be sitting on the side of the road by now. Hell, I wouldn't have started up my car for him. But as far as a more decent politician . . . I can't think of anyone.
We were right beyond the Mason-Dixon line when a thirst for strong drink fell upon me. My passenger was awake and starting to talk about policies and her rebound in Nevada. "Good," I said. "I'm not typically the betting type, given my nature in political journalism but, I feel that you have a chance at winning and I kind of hope you do." It was a total lie, but I wanted to shut her up. "I've got to pull over for gas," I continued as I brought the Jeep down from a steady 75 and pulled into a BP station sitting conveniently next to a liquor store. It was around 10 o'clock and we still had another ten hours to go.
While Hillary was in a manic state back at the house, I took the liberty of snatching her American Express card from her purse. "Fill up the car," I said while proceeding towards the liquor store. "I'll be back in a minute."
"I can't fill up a car." She growled.
"I'm not your husband or your cohorts," I yelled sharply. "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. Fill up the goddamn car."
I kept walking towards the liquor store in fury and rage. Why anyone would support a pompous bitch like her, I would never understand.
I gathered the goods and slapped the card on the table without thinking first. I had over 500 dollars worth of liquor and was getting ready to charge it to Hillary's credit card. Oh well, it was strictly survival at this point. Eat or be eaten.
"Oh, give me a break! You think I'd believe this card to be real?" The bald man behind the counter said without hesitation.
"What?" I replied. "Is there something wrong with my card?"
"Hillary Clinton? Sir, you can't fool anyone with this."
"Hey, can you come over here for a second." I said, motioning him over to the window. "See that woman out there trying to pump gas. That's my wife. I am Bill Clinton, you bastard, and I demand this liquor to be charged to this card!" I poked him sharply in the chest and forced him to go back behind the cash register and do his job.
With the tank full and the backseat loaded down with liquor and beer, we were back on the highway. "What did you get?" Hillary muttered as she turned around in her seat. "Here you go." I said, helping her to a half-gallon jug of Wild Turkey. She gave it a menacing look but shrugged and took a deep sip. "There you go," I said grinning. "You look more relaxed already! At the current pace, we'll be in New Hampshire in 4 large bottles and a 12-pack from now."
"We're are doing a very illegal and unjust act to the law." Hillary replied.
"Churchill was an alcoholic and Kennedy was a sex fiend. You'll fit in fine in Washington if you keep this up." I assured her. "Besides, I am the Law!"
The alcohol was taking hold and Hillary was sounding more and more like an ill-fated sorority girl. I chuckled at her nonsense and soon felt a calm drift come over my body. For the first time in my life I actually liked Hillary Clinton. She was squalling wildly like a suckling pig - a demented swine with no qualms for the common American except when it came to quick polls and a photo op. Much less the hard-working Wino Americans, like myself.
"Hot damn!" I hollered out in a glorious tone. "We are champions, Hillary. Iowa and the rest of the nation might find you repulsive, but not I and the decent American's out there!"
". . . And Jesus!" She shouted.
"Yes. There may be flies on them and us, but there are no flies on Jesus! We've got divinity on our side, the stars are in alignment for us tonight."
I finished my bottle of Chivas and in a quick motion hurled it out the window. It burst into a million sharp pieces like a glass bomb. BANG! Hillary went crazy with joy and I had to wait for her to calm down. Along with the explosion of the bottle came a sharp idea from my mind. "Wino" and "Swine" were just what we needed to win the preliminaries. And before I could even grasp the twisted brilliances of such an outrageous idea, I had already blurted it out to my cohort sitting next to me. "Yes!" She said laughing. "We'll storm through the states in triumph."
I slapped her with the back of my hand across her side. "Don't ever mention triumph. It's affiliated with Hitler and Death! We shall rise but not in the shadows of the corrupt and evil. We will take over Washington and use leather whips on the Bush Administration. Tonight, you and I form our own political force, known simply as the 'Swino Party.'"
She laughed uncontrollably. "Ha-ha, yes!" She cried. "The Swino Party is the only effective way to beat the opposition."
"We'll squash them like roaches." I said with my heart racing.
"We'll kill the ones who eat us." She yelled.
". . . And eat the ones we kill." I added.
I now had my body turned around looking for a bottle of Korbel to celebrate this event when Hillary suddenly let out a deafening scream.
"Tyler, it's the cops! Hide the liquor."
Now both our bodies were turned around trying to hide our evidence in brown bags.
I turned back around just in time to notice the two cops sitting on the side of the road with their cluster of police lights flashing.
"Ah, do not worry." I said. "They are not out to get us. This thing would be going crazy by now." I pointed to a brand new Cobra XRS 9930 radar detector sitting on my dash. "This thing has 12-band detection along with 360-degree protection."
The night continued to unravel around our twisted good times and I never thought Hillary had an ounce of fun anywhere in her soulless body. But she did.
Our fun started to wither away just by the time we passed the New York skyline. The bright shimmering lights anchored to the great phallic symbol, the Empire State Building - a monument to the proud dream of potency that is the spirit of New York, danced away as I got on I-90 and drove across Massachusetts. Hillary calmed down and finally drifted to sleep with a half-drunken bottle of Hypnotic still in her lap. I was sucking down a Guinness and "Blister In The Sun" was playing on the radio.
When I'm walkin' I strut my stuff, man I'm so strung out.
I'm high as a kite I might stop to check you out.
Body and beats I stain my sheets I don't even know why
My girlfriend she's at the end, she is starting to cry.
Let me go on like a blister in the sun.
Let me go on, big hands I know you're the one.
Indeed. Nothing else could explain the situation I was in better than the Violent Femmes.
Back while we were driving through New York, Hillary was going on about how much she's helped her state. There was great pride in her voice and for a second I agreed that she was decent politician. NO! Jesus Tits, man. Get a grip on yourself. Hillary Clinton is and always will be a cunt. Nothing more. Nothing less. You like the drunken Hillary, not the straight-edged bitch Hillary. I faught hard to bring her down from a pedestal my mind had sat her on. I started grabbing all the liquor and booze from the back seat and throwing it violently out the window. Cars behind me were swerving and running off the road. Liquor and huge hunks of glass where going all over the place. Busted out tires and shattered windshields. There was no way I could keep drinking with this rotten bitch riding with me. Soon we would be in New Hampshire and Hillary would be campaigning again for the same twisted shit that her husband companioned for eighteen years ago. Her policies are dated and she has no want for change. It's as if the Clinton-Bush regime will continue on until the end of the American dynasty, when China finally conquers the western world. They've been waiting for 4,000 years and they are in no hurry!
I slam my hands into the steering wheel and yell out towards the deprived Hillary sleeping next to me. I should run us both off the road into a horrifically wonderful blaze.
21 Year-Old Holds Hillary Clinton Hostage
-
Burned Carcasses
Found in Massachusetts
Get a grip on yourself. Drop her off at the hotel and let it be. Thomas Jefferson would be proud.
We were about to enter Manchester city limits when Hillary woke up refreshed. "No Hangover, eh?" I said cautiously. "No." She replied. I could tell she was back to her awful self again. The car was silent as we drove closer to the hotel.
Not soon there after, I pulled up to the Marriott were Hillary claimed she was staying. Her campaign bus was outside but it wasn't like I didn't believe her, or cared really. There was awkward silence and then she finally spoke.
"Tyler," She said reluctantly. "Who are you voting for?"
I knew the question would come sooner or later and I was simply in no mood for sleep-deprived bullshit.
"Barack Obama." I replied.
"Oh why? Why him after all the fun we had?"
Clinton had morphed back into her woman-like figure, where she tried to be kind and gentle - like the day before when she broke down in tears to tell the public that she wasn't some sort of evil robot with no emotions. I had to tell her the truth.
"Because he speaks of hope and decency in American Politics - something not touched on since Robert Kennedy."
"He can't get things done. I get things done!" She said trying to sway me.
"That's the problem." I continued as I got out of the car and opened her door. "You say 'I' instead of 'We' and that's why people like Barack. You are nothing but a relic of the nineties, a shadow of Bill, and because of that you'll not get the votes needed to win and you will loose."
She held back emotions this time and got out of the car. No thanks or kind jesters were exchanged - just a brisk walk towards the hotel lobby without even looking back.
I shrugged it off and got back in the Jeep. Driving back towards Tennessee with the sun now shining brightly in the sky, I should've dumped her body on the side of the road and stopped by Waffle House instead.
Conclusion.
Hillary ended up stealing six percent from Barack thanks to her dramatic act the day before. There is more alcohol sold in New Hampshire than any other state, which might explain why she won.