The Candidates: Based on a True Country

By Matthew S. Hiley

Warning: The Candidates: Based on a True Country is not for the faint of heart.

It is a political satire of epic disproportion. The story centers on Skip LaDouche and Harry Pinko, the two front-runners campaigning for the presidency of the United States, who have managed to claw, bribe, and scam their way up the political ladder. They are what we’ve come to expect from our leaders: self-serving and unqualified.

When Kimmy Faimwhorre, the reality television star that they are both having an affair with, turns up murdered, the candidates take campaigning to its most primal form . . . complete and total destruction of the opposition. 

Nothing is sacred in this violently comic short novel from Matthew S. Hiley. His wit is sharp and quick, and this story is dark, cynical, and hilarious. Politics-as-usual and pop-culture are thoroughly skewered in one of the most absurd and entertaining stories ever told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group
• Release date: May 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781626342699

Book preview

JOURNALIST

PROLOGUE

The Betty Ford Center

Rancho Mirage, California

At the Betty Ford Center for treatment, addiction, and recovery in Rancho Mirage, California, there’s a large pond behind McCallum Hall, which is one of the men’s housing units.

This pond is meant for the quiet reflection and meditation of Betty Ford patients. It was put there so that people could sit peacefully and get inside their own heads and figure out how in the hell their lives got so off track that they would find themselves sitting beside a pond at the Betty Ford Center.

That’s what it’s for, which is probably a pretty decent idea. However, it is seldom used for that purpose.

The pond is more often used for people with nothing else to do but sit and watch what kind of crazy shit the birds that live there do. This is a place where people transcend boredom and reach an entirely new level of not doing shit.

For instance, at any given point in time, there might be ten to twenty people sitting at the water’s edge and smoking cigarettes in silence, staring at the birds. When one of the birds floating atop the water curls its head under and goes for a dive, completely submerging itself, all ten to twenty people watching the pond raise their arms and look at their watches simultaneously, almost as if synchronized.

They do this because the record for a bird staying underwater at the Betty Ford Center meditation pond stands at one minute and twenty-one seconds, and they want to be able to say they were there should the day ever come that the record is shattered.

These same people sitting on the shore of the meditation pond might also look up toward the trees, where another amazing spectacle takes place. The birds of the trees hold another record. The birds of the trees have but one problem … sticking a perfect landing on a perfect branch with a perfect view of the pond.

These birds are large, white, and somewhat stupid looking. I can’t quite peg it … but for some reason, they just look unintelligent. Painfully unintelligent.

As the birds are on their final approach to a branch, they extend their wings and perform a spiraling glide downward. You would normally expect birds to be more graceful than these, yet these are completely lacking in grace and form. These birds look as if they are going to crash every time.

On their first approach, they often do crash, or they miss the branch entirely. Either way, once they miss a landing, they flap their big, stupid wings until they’re twenty or so feet above the tree they just tried to land on. Then, they take off for another complete lap around the entire Betty Ford Center before making another spiraling downward attempt.

Boring? Well, hell yes it is. But it’s also exhilarating. These birds generally make five or six laps before they ever stick a perfect landing. Anal little bastards, for sure. And stupid.

The record for laps around the Betty Ford Center by a tree-dwelling bird stands at twelve.

Every time a bird misses a landing, you can see the almost-synchronized raising of hands on extended arms, with a finger extended beyond that, marking one lap. Then, a second finger marks the second lap. And so on.

No one wants to say they weren’t there on the day the record is shattered.

Still sounds boring beyond your wildest dreams, eh? Okay, I’ll level with you. It is the most boring shit you’ve ever seen. But you can feel your heart beating inside your chest when a bird is nearing a record.

On this particular day, there are two men in wheelchairs at opposing ends of the fifteen or so patients at the reflection pond. The story of how these two men arrived on the fine beaches behind McCallum Hall is anything but boring.

Theirs is a story of lust and loss … It is a story of the hunger some men have for power. Theirs is a story of gratuitous violence and lives lost, brought about by hyperinflated egos. It is a story of two men, giants both in their time and in their minds, who had it all … and then flushed it down the can for the entire world to see.

You might recognize them if you look hard at their burnt, scarred faces. Their faces have graced every website and news outlet in every developed country for the past few months. The reckless abandon that brought about their demise could not have been a bigger story.

And here they are now, bodies and minds completely broken, gazing in misery at the waters of the reflection pond at the Betty Ford Center.

On the surface of the water, at just about the middle of the pond, a bird goes under. Just then, fifteen arms come up and everyone looks toward their watches and marks the time at which the bird goes under.

But the two men at each end of the crowd on wheeled land-transports do not raise their arms. They can’t. They’re paralyzed. They manage to shift their heads just enough so that they can steal a glance at each other, however. They glare in anger at one another for a moment with a hatred that is absolutely white-hot and electrifying. They are giving each other the ultimate stink eye.

After a brief exchange of a horrifying level of displeasure, they both look forward, toward the pond. They are focusing hard … preparing their minds for an unthinkable task …

Each of them finds the resolve amid the hatred they have for one another to focus on the horrific task at hand. At the same time, they move their mouth-operated joysticks on each of their wheelchairs, catapulting them full-speed ahead, toward the pond. They are navigating their wheelchairs into the murky waters of reflection and meditation.

My calculation is that full-speed for them is about one to one-and-a-half miles per hour.

Have you ever heard someone say that they have witnessed something horrible, and it was as if it was in slow motion? That’s exactly what this is like.

Except it really is in slow motion.

Another good bit of information on the reflection pond is this: There are no lifeguards on duty. This is due in large part to the disgusting conditions of the water. It has to be eighty percent bird shit. On this day, however, it appears that the Betty Ford Center would benefit from having a lifeguard … or maybe two. Skip and Harry would benefit for sure.

But, like I said, there are none.

The folks on the shore watch as the two men travel with great purpose across the small tract of perfectly manicured grass and breach the eighteen inches (or so) of cement shoreline that precedes the water. They continue at a mind-numbingly low rate of speed into the water, until they become slowly but completely submerged in the pond.

The crowd of Betty Ford patients have plenty of time to react. Hell, they have time to play a game of checkers and then react. But no one does. No one yells at them to stop. No one jumps up or rushes to save them.

Instead, just as the top of their heads go under, in an almost synchronized fashion, fifteen or so arms go up, and they again look to their watches to mark the time.

CHAPTER 1

LaDouche Campaign Headquarters

Washington, DC, 4 1/2 Months Ago

Duke Hatchet sat in the office of his boss, Skip LaDouche, planning the events that would transpire over the next several days. They sat on either side of Skip’s massive mahogany desk.

Along the walls of the enormous office hung photographs of Skip with the gods of industry, sports, and government. One look at these pictures and you knew this man had connections that could crush you.

The office was well lit and tasteful, with an impressively gigantic conference table surrounded by deep leather chairs. The most impressive portion of the office wasn’t the conference table, however. It was the bar.

The bar was stocked with dozens and dozens of bottles containing the finest wines and whiskeys from around the world. Just above the sink in the bar, the most current calendar from Hooters hung a little bit crooked.

Skip, we have the abortion protest march on Washington all set up, Duke Hatchet said flatly and with just a bit of arrogance. "Here’s the deal: The Kill the Abortionists movement has launched a pretty hefty social-networking campaign. We’re expecting hundreds of thousands of people. Maybe a million. They think they may be able to sacrifice a live abortion doctor while Lee Greenwood sings the national anthem. This thing is gonna be huge. It’ll totally piss off those hippies at Planned Parenthood."

Outstanding, Hatchet-boy! Skip LaDouche shot back. Did your guys get a chance to Photoshop Pinko’s face into some NAMBLA literature yet?

Not yet, sir, he replied. But we will. The sun won’t rise tomorrow without every red-blooded, God-fearing, gun-toting American thinking Harry Pinko loves kids the wrong way.

You’re doing the Lord’s work, Hatchet, LaDouche said proudly.

Duke Hatchet served as campaign manager for the Republican front-runner for the presidency, Skip LaDouche. Duke was a burly, negative, spiteful member of seven different national militia movements. He was LaDouche’s best friend from childhood, and the only man LaDouche trusted with matters of importance.

Duke was portly, with stubby little arms and a gut. He had a thinning brown flattop haircut and stood about five feet three inches tall. He was the butt of many short jokes. The jokes ate him up inside, but he knew at some point he would be one of the most powerful men in the world. He would rain down retribution on everyone who had ever made light of his vertical challenges. Everyone would pay … except for LaDouche, who funny enough was the biggest asshole jokester of them all.

Somebody strap a child-safety seat in the limo, said LaDouche to his staff. I’m taking Duke to tour the rally site.

As the staff pointed and laughed, Hatchet gave a faux chuckle back at them and mentally went through the exact order he would kill them in.

As his simmering anger dissipated, he glanced affectionately in the direction of his leader, the fearless Skip LaDouche. He had worshipped this man since the two could barely walk.

Duke had watched with a moderate amount of jealousy as Skip’s star continued to rise. He had always been in the shadow of the giant. He knew that someday Skip would be a very powerful man, and if he simply hitched his wagon to Skip’s star, he too would be powerful.

Skip was the star quarterback in high school. Duke was the mascot. This dynamic carried forward as Skip entered into the world of politics. Duke wasn’t the leader of the team; he was the leader of the people rooting for the team: Team LaDouche.

Skip stood six feet two inches tall, almost an entire foot taller than Duke. He managed to maintain a somewhat athletic build throughout life, regardless of how much alcohol he drank or cocaine he snorted. He had sandy blonde hair with graying temples, and the women loved his rugged good looks.

Skip had married the woman of his dreams several years back. After a brief foray into hard-core porn magazine modeling, his wife Linda found her true passion in teaching children. Skip and Linda loved each other dearly for the first few weeks of marriage and had hated each other dearly every day since. Linda would occasionally make love to one of her high school students, and Skip would stick his meat thermometer in anything with a pulse. Yet somehow they made it work. By work, of course, I mean they never spoke to each other at all.

LaDouche had worked in the oil business and in banking before entering politics. He was the CEO of BlowHard Refinery for seven years. In those seven years, he made many political connections and actually wrote an energy bill for Congress called The Helmets of Love Provision, in which oil companies would supply small polymer helmets for endangered animal species in areas that had drilling potential. The helmets would protect the endangered animals from trees that fell in land that was being cleared for oil wells.

The bill passed with full Republican and Democratic support. Who wouldn’t want to protect the animals? It was a masterstroke of sheer genius.

After leaving BlowHard, LaDouche went on to become CEO of Phuckoff-Itsmyne Bank (PIB). The political connections he had made in the oil business only bolstered his success in the banking industry. Under his leadership at PIB, the company saw world-record historical losses that were said to be unattainable ever again. LaDouche received a five-billion-dollar golden parachute retirement package, subsidized by the federal government, when he left banking to run for Congress. He would no doubt reenter the business world as a lobbyist at some point.

Skip LaDouche was an overnight success in Congress, literally. Within twenty-three hours of joining Congress, there was already talk that he would be the next Republican nominee for president.

Three days later, he formed an exploratory committee, led by his old friend Duke Hatchet, to look at the possibility of Skip running for president. Two days after that, he resigned his position as Congressman and announced his bid for the presidency. For the last couple of months in the primaries, he’d been the Republican front-runner, busting his ass to completely discredit the opposition, with absolutely zero time spent on specific policies he would implement as president.

He sent Duke to find evidence of every embarrassing thing that his opponent, Harry Pinko, had ever done. Duke took on the task with gusto, hiring every behind-the-scenes sleazeball he could find to dig up and manufacture evidence that this guy was just flat-out un-American.

Hatchet’s phone rang as they walked toward the limousine. He mumbled something into the receiver and then covered it with his hand.

Skip, he whispered to LaDouche. It’s Kimmy.

CHAPTER 2

Pinko Campaign Headquarters

Washington, DC, Still 4 1/2 Months Ago

Pinko! Moondog Freelove yelled. "I have some awesome news. We just got the ladies from The View to agree to host a counterrally at the same time as the Republican antiabortion rally. Right after Lee Greenwood finishes singing the national anthem for the Republicans, the losers from last year’s American Idol will sing America the Beautiful while shooting oil-covered ocean birds out of T-shirt launchers into the crowd. We’re trying to get something big enough to launch seals and otters, but we don’t have anything locked down yet."

Great job, Moondog! Harry Pinko yelled back with enthusiasm. Who wants to be proactive when we can be reactive, eh? Great thinking!

Yes sir! We also have Colon-Clear set to give out up to a million vegan hot dogs! Moondog shot back. This will be the best counterrally ever! The other guys don’t have anything but Budweiser! Seriously! I mean, would you rather eat a nutritious hot dog or drink a cold beer? What are they thinking?

Awesome again, Moondoggie, Pinko said with gusto. How about the other items on the agenda?

Ah, yes! I have an eyewitness who’s ready to go to CNN with what he saw at the White Tiger Ranch in East Texas. Apparently, he even has video from the surveillance cameras. LaDouche and some of his banking buddies were shooting all kinds of wild game, from giraffes to polar bears. I mean, seriously, he shot a baby seal with an Uzi! What the hell is a baby seal doing in East Texas? They even have a picture of him laughing his ass off when he blew up an elephant with a grenade launcher.

Moondog took a deep breath before he launched into another tirade in the main campaign office of his boss, Harry Pinko.

When looking at Harry Pinko’s office, the first word that

Reviews for The Candidates

[pomo58 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

The Candidates: Based on a True Country by Matthew S. Hiley is a well-conceived yet poorly executed satire on the political landscape of the United States. Political satire is a large and varied field with contributions from across the political spectrum and going for a somewhat sophomoric take is particularly appropriate given this election cycle's candidates. Unfortunately this book doesn't even manage to reach the admittedly low level set by the term sophomoric, even calling it juvenile might be giving it too high of a level of either sophistication or humor. I wanted to like this, I was prepared to laugh at some childish humor while appreciating some insightful observations. There were several wonderfully insightful portions, rarely longer than a paragraph unfortunately. These were overshadowed by prose that even my inner child found below him. If this were a movie (please, no ideas!) Animal House would be many levels above it in both level of humor and even social commentary. If I seem hard on this book I apologize but to let an opportunity to contribute to the political discourse evaporate because one wants to aim for trashy writing rather than merely offensive satire (which would have made this a wonderful read) is a very discouraging statement about what passes for contemporary "edgy" humor.I would probably recommend this to a few people, those who don't care for the ideas so much as reading words and jokes that make them laugh, heck, that made them laugh in kindergarten. Other than that, probably not.Reviewed from a copy made available by the publisher via NetGalley.