Date: Tue, 1 Jan 2008 07:39:58 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: Fork in the Road, Chapter 5

FORK IN THE ROAD
By Scott Turner
Chapter 5



"If you come to a fork in the road, take it."
-Yogi Berra

Disclaimer: This work is a sequel to my first effort at writing gay erotic
fiction.  As such, it may help if you've read "Strange Bedfellows,"
(available in its entirety on Nifty, with a cleaned up and re-edited
version now partially posted at the Rainbow Community Writers' Project).
The story is fiction, but it occasional depicts scenes of sexual activity
between consenting adults.  If it's illegal for you to view such material,
then please move on.  The work is the sole property of the author, and my
not be reposted, reproduced or published elsewhere without my expressed
consent.  Thank you for reading.  I hope you enjoy it.

CHAPTER 5


The fundraiser had been a good time, and a huge success by Will Maxson's
accounting.  Of course, as a state employee, he couldn't officially account
for, let alone touch, funds that were raised for partisan purposes.  Those
were donations to the party, not the Senate Election Committee, and he was
paid by the good people of the State of Wisconsin.  There was a wall there
that needed to be officially regarded.  It was a fine line, but a line
nonetheless.  Still, the party's guys and gals were gushing over the
financial results of the night's efforts as he looked over their shoulders
and smiled.  Most of it would go to Ted Hackett's final re-election
campaign as Governor.  Most of the rest would be quietly donated to
Maureen's race for Attorney General.  Frick would dole out the rest to
incumbents or up-and-comers whom he wanted to owe him something.

`Shit, he looks good,' Scott thought as he surveyed Randy Oakes swaying
between his father and a lobbyist for the counties association.  `Even when
he's drunk he's hot, and I'm horny as hell.  Marty had visited just a week
earlier, but he was a young virile guy with a lot of imagination.  `Son of
a mother fucking bitch,' he thought to himself as he pressed his chubbing
cock down through the pocket of his pants.

But his folks were there.  `Big Scott' was prepping for his run at
Maureen's seat and he had to make an appearance to press the flesh and
schmooze for the night.  Suzanne didn't like it, but had dutifully
accompanied her husband.  She was already learning how to hide her disdain
for the role of the political spouse.  `They're gonna have to work that
out,' Scott thought.

Both of Scott's heads turned back to Randy.  The lower one twitched against
his thigh.  `Forget it,' he said to himself and he went to his mom's side
while his dad worked the crowd.  `Maybe mixing it up with Mom for a while
will make me drop this hard on,' he hoped.  Plus, he saw the distress she
was in and felt the need to bail her out.

Suzanne was delighted to have his company as Scotty whispered into her ear
about the mucky-mucks the old man was sucking up to.  He'd been at the
Capitol for just over three months, but had learned quickly who mattered
and who didn't.  And it was clear that the big guy knew which flesh to
press.  Scotty was impressed.  Suzanne was bored, but was happy to see her
son enjoying himself, and had long since resigned herself to her husband's
run for state office.

Then her son gently grabbed her elbow and tugged her onto the dance floor.
They swayed together to an old Duke Ellington tune.  "It's gonna be okay,
you know," he whispered into his mother's ear.  "He's going to win this
seat, he's gonna be great in the job and he's going to do good things."
She looked up into son's eyes, questioning him without saying a word.
Scott smiled and nodded.  "Can you think of anybody else who could, or
should, replace Maureen?  I mean, I know political crap has never mattered
much to you.  But it really does matter, Mom.  It matters a lot."  Suzanne
nodded, albeit reluctantly.  "He's a good man, he's a noble and principled
man."  Scott giggled a bit and said, "The same reasons that got you to
marry him are the reasons the folks back home should elect him."  Suzanne
nodded again and put her head on her son's shoulder.

They left the dance floor, and Scott persuaded his mom to order him a
drink.  He sipped a bourbon and coke, and then continued, "So many people
take the easy way out and just bash the politicians in order to let
themselves off the hook.  It's like the nation's or the world's problems
aren't their own damned fault.  Dad's not like that."  He smirked.  "Face
it, mom.  He doesn't need that job."  He took another sip.  "Plus, he never
let me get away with any shit.  And he'll spend his time in office ranting
at the folks back home the same way he did with me all those years, and
still does.  It'll do `em good.  Most of the folks around us don't want to
own the crap.  They want to pretend that it's all somebody else's fault.
He won't let `em get away with that, and that's what they need."

He did his best `Big Scott' impersonation, "So, you don't like things the
way they are?  So what are YOU gonna do about it?  You don't like it?
Well, you OWN it, so YOU FIX IT!"

His dad overheard him from a distance of about fifteen feet, glanced over
and laughed.  Suzanne wanted to find a hole to crawl into, but she laughed
herself.  She'd always found Scotty to be a funny boy, and now was happy to
find that he was still a funny young man.

Suzanne glanced up over her son's shoulder and Scott felt a hand on his
back.  He turned his head, then shot it back.  "Oh, Mom!  This is Randy
Oakes.  He's my old TA in last year's Poli-Sci class, and Maureen's new
Chief of Staff."

She took his hand in hers.  "We've met, Randy, but when you were a real
youngster.  Still in high school, I think.  But we've known your dad for
years.  And you were at our table at the scholarship dinner last spring."

Randy straightened up and Scott muffled a chuckle at the guy's effort to
appear stone cold sober.  It was a valiant effort and mostly successful.
"Yes, Mrs. Turner.  I met you and Mr. Turner at a Jefferson-Jackson Day
dinner for the party when I was a kid.  But we didn't have much chance to
chat during the scholarship luncheon.  I just wanted to say hello," he put
a firm grip on Scott's shoulder, "and to tell you how much I've enjoyed
working with your son, both in his class and now over at the Capitol."

"Mom, Randy was the one who nudged Professor Cushing to nominate me for the
LaFollette Scholarship."

Suzanne's face lit up.  "Well, Randy, you've not just grown up to a good
looking young man but one of great taste and judgment."

Randy's right hand slid off of Scott's left shoulder and down his back,
settling just above his ass.  "Well, thank you for the complement, but it's
impossible to not recognize real talent when you see it.  I was just the
messenger to Dr. Cushing.  Scott did all the work to earn what he's got."
His fingers gently rubbed the small of Scott's back.  "Anyway, I just
wanted to say hello again."  He glanced at Scott's empty glass.  "Can I buy
you one?"

Scott grinned sheepishly, and looked at his mom.

"You're not driving are you?" Suzanne warned.

"No, Mother."  He put a sarcastic emphasis on the word mother.  "I came
here on foot.  You know I'm only, like, four blocks away from here now."

"Then go have another one with Randy while I go and find your father."  She
tapped Randy's forearm.  "Good to see you again Randy."  And she was off.

Randy nodded toward the bar.  "C'mon, I'll buy you another one."

Scott was a bit apprehensive, but was also exceedingly horny, and he kind
of liked the guy.  `What the hell?' he thought, but knew that Randy's
motives were probably somewhat nefarious.

Randy handed Scott his drink.  "It's good to be working together again,
don't you think?"

Scott smiled.  "I've always enjoyed working with you.  Maureen's treating
you well, I presume?"

Just then her arms came around both of their shoulders.  "The two smartest
men in my life, no doubt conspiring to take over something, somewhere."
Both men blushed and shrugged.

Scott grinned.  "Yeah, Maureen, we're plotting to take over the lower house
and make everybody's life a little easier."

She patted his back.  "You figure out how to pull that off and I'll give
you the keys and title to my car."

"The BMW?"

She winked at him.  "The `Beamer."

Randy feigned a frown and cleared his throat.  "As your chief of staff,
senator, I have to advise you that I believe that's illegal."

She patted his back.  "Bullshit, Randy.  I know my way around the finance
laws, and I could get it done if I really meant it."  She heard her name
called from several feet away.  "Sorry, men, but duty calls.  You boys have
a good night."

As she walked away, Randy smiled.  "She's the best.  Smartest woman I know,
and it's good to be in her office.  Gives me and the old man a bird's eye
view of what's going on there to gear up for his campaign.  I have a good
feel for that.  Once Dad actually declares for that seat and gets her
endorsement, I think it'll probably be a lock."

Scott's eyebrows raised.  "You two have talked to her about that? I mean,
her endorsement?"

"No, not yet.  Don't want to be too presumptuous, and it's still early."
He waved his hand around the room.  "But Dad got her into all of this to
start with, and he's been a solid backer all these years.  She'll be with
us when the time comes."

Scott was frustrated on every level.  On the one hand he wanted to take
this guy back to the apartment and ravish him.  On another, he knew that
Randy was delusional about Maureen's support for his father, but he
couldn't tell him so.  Randy had no idea that `Big Scott' was going to run
for the seat.  And finally he had to work with Randy at the Capitol.  The
combined effect of this conversation quickly deflated the plumping organ
behind the pleats of his slacks.

Still, the two of them had flirted heavily during Scott's freshman year,
and he and Marty had enjoyed one hell of a night in Randy's apartment when
his marriage was going to hell the previous spring.  The guy knew how to
suck cock and was one hell of a hungry bottom.  Scott thought about that
night again.  There was Randy, legs in the air and Scott hammering his
hole.  Marty, sitting on Randy's face while Scott leaned in and sucked
swallowed Marty's rock hard tool.  The pressure beneath the pleats of his
pants began to return.

Randy leaned toward him, speaking in a whisper.  "So, now that I'm not
teaching you anymore, and am single, what's to stop us from going back to
my place and having hot, sweaty, unbridled sex."

Scott bit his lip.  He was so damned horny and Randy looked so damned good.
And Randy was willing; more than willing, he was practically begging.  He
knew that this guy would do just about whatever he wanted.  Scott cleared
his throat.  "Uhm, the working relationship complicates things, Randy,
don't you think?"

"But we're working on the same side, and we're not in the same office.
It's not like there's a real conflict of interest here."  He grinned and
subtly brushed his hand across his own package.  "And I'm guessing neither
one of us has gotten any in quite a while."

He was mostly right on that point.  Since Marty's last visit Scott had only
had his hands to satisfy him.  Plus, he had a pretty good buzz going from
the drinks.  And Randy just looked so fucking hot.  `I might regret this
later, but what the fuck,' he said to himself.  "Okay, Randy."

Randy blinked.  "You serious?"

"Let's go back to your place and I'll show you how serious I am."

Less than fifteen minutes after bidding goodnight to his parents, Maureen
and to the governor, Scott had Randy pinned against the hallway wall of the
apartment with his tongue in Randy's mouth.  He pulled his face away and
gasped.  "You know there's something wrong with this."

Randy leered and smirked.  "I know. Ain't it great?  And I didn't exactly
get you over here at gunpoint, so quit your bitching and kiss me again.
You're a great kisser."  Then with one hand he pulled Scott's face into his
own, and with the other he grabbed his ass.

Scott was already rock hard and he ground his groin into Randy's swelling
package as their tongues waged a fierce, wet duel.  He pulled away again,
his chin shimmering with Randy's moisture and grabbed the lapel of his
partner's sport coat.  "Come on, dammit!" and he practically dragged Randy
through the living room and kitchen into to bedroom.

Both sport coats were flung over the back of the chair at Randy's desk.  In
an instant, Randy was gnawing on Scott's right nipple through his shirt and
mauling his crotch with his palm.  Scott laughed.  "Jesus, man.  Take it
easy on the jewels!"  He looked down at the stud on his knees while he
loosened his own tie.  The tie fell onto the floor and Scott continued
looking down.  He grabbed the hair on the back of Randy's head and forced
his face into his crotch.  "But suck my cock, dammit!"

Randy nuzzled and gnawed at the package in front if him, and then shook his
head free from Scott's grasp, but only because he'd started working on the
belt and the clasp on Scott's slacks.  "Let me at it then and I'll suck the
fucking life out of you."

Scott chuckled.  "Well, don't go that far."  Randy's mouth assaulted his
tool.  Scott gasped, "oh my fucking god!"  Randy was on his knees and had
worked his own slacks down to the floor without breaking the rhythm on
Scott's thrusting pole.  Scott had a firm hand on each side of his head and
was fucking his face, and he loved it.  The head of Scott's tool hit
Randy's throat, and Randy squeezed Scott's ass cheeks even tighter with
each thrust.

Randy pulled back, gasped and looked up.  "No, sir.  I won't go quite that
far."

Scott gripped his glistening tool and smacked Randy's cheek with it.  Randy
sighed and offered up the other cheek for another whack.  He leered down.
"Sir.  Hmmm, I think I like your attitude."

Randy kissed the slimy cock in front of him.  "I want your cock, sir."  He
ran his tongue up the shaft and looked up.  "Will you please give it to me,
sir?"

For Scott this was brand new territory but he was into it.  "Take off your
fucking pants and get on the bed.  I'm gonna make your ass my own."

Randy started to stand.  "Make me your bitch, sir."

Scott pushed him back down.  "Take off your fucking pants, and then get
down there and untie my shoes and take them off, you fucker."

There was some delight in the whimper Randy offered up as he laid on his
back and shimmied out of his pants.  His tight gray boxer briefs already
displayed an impressive wet spot at the top of the impressive column
beneath the fabric.  Randy rolled to his side on the floor and untied
Scott's shoes.  He slid off the black oxfords one at a time and asked
permission to remove the socks.  He received it with a grin.

Scott had never been here before, but he was half in the bag and he was
enjoying it.  After Randy had peeled off the right sock, he put the flat of
his foot on the stud's chest and pushed him back down to the floor.  He
curled his toes to try and squeeze Randy's left nipple, and the reaction he
got told him he was successful.  He slid the foot a few feet and Randy
eagerly sucked the big toe into his mouth.  He licked the bottom of the
foot and Scott squirmed.  "Thank you, sir," Randy whispered.

Scott was stunned, stunned by Randy's willing submission and by his own
willingness to indulge it.  He'd never wanted to treat another person this
way, but Randy clearly wanted it.  He sneered.  "You want to be my bitch,
don't you boy?"

Randy nodded and lowered his eyes.  "Like you don't know, sir.  I want to
be your fucking bitch tonight, sir."

Before they awoke, both had come three times.  Scott had shot his load into
a condom deep inside of Randy, on Randy's ass and his back and all over his
face.  Randy had begged and pleaded and submitted, and Scott had delivered
in fine fashion.

Scott rolled over and opened his eyes, alone in the bed and could smell
coffee.  Randy walked in with two mugs, his dangling member leading the way
and a grin on his face.  He extended an arm.  "Your coffee, sir."

Scott grinned and rolled his eyes.  "Okay, enough of the `sir' shit."
Randy put his own mug on the night stand and slid back between the sheets,
and then picked up the mug.

Randy chuckled.  "Okay."  There was a pause while both sipped.  "So how are
ya'?"

Scott stared ahead and mulled it over.  "Not sure."  Then he grinned.
"Well, I'm exhausted, and guess I really needed that.  But I'm not sure it
was the best idea in the world."

Randy patted his knee.  "No worries, Scott.  No strings, no baggage, no
expectations.  I think we both needed that."  He cleared his throat.  "I
only indulge that submissive side every now and then, and if it matters,
you delivered in great form."

Scott pursed his lips and chuckled through his nose.  "Well, thanks.  I was
a little worried when you almost took us off the bed."  At one point during
their second go round, Randy was on all fours, his hands grasping the side
edge of the mattress with Scott pounding him from behind.  Randy lifted a
hand to reach behind and grab Scott's ass in encouragement, and he lost his
leverage on the mattress.  In an instant, Randy's head and both of his
hands were on the floor and Scott was dragged along behind him.  They both
laughed, and Scott finished the task by pummeling the guy below him in that
position.

Randy laughed again.  "Yeah, that was quite the trip.  A new one on me," he
patted Scott's thigh again.  "But you didn't miss a beat, champ."

Scott looked over and squinted.  "I'm surprised you don't have rug burns on
your forehead."

They showered separately.  This had not been some romantic rendezvous
calling for any intimate closure.  It was just a hot fuck, and they both
knew it.  Still, they bade each other well with a hug in the hallway before
Scott opened the front door and made his exit.  Randy offered him a ride
back to his apartment, but Scott noted the nice weather and said he'd
prefer to walk back.

`That was hot, and I needed it,' he thought to himself as he hit the
sidewalk `but probably a mistake.  We'll see.'

Two evenings later, Scott was sitting in the apartment reading when the
phone rang.  Craig shouted from the other room.  "For you, Scott.  I think
it's your little buddy Radar.  Good news I suppose."  Scott picked up the
extension in his room and could hear Craig tromping into the kitchen.  Then
he heard Brett's footsteps mosey out of his bedroom.  It was a rare evening
when Brett was not at Angie's place.

"Hello."

"Well, chief, you've been drafted into another year of servitude.  Only
sixty-seven percent of the vote this time, but biggest margin of any of the
newly elected or re-elected members."  The clerk giggled.
"Congratulations."

"Thanks, Radar.  Tell me you're coming back, too."

"It'd be a pleasure to work with you for another year.  You know that."

"Great.  G'night.  I'll stop by tomorrow morning, and we'll get back to
work."

"I'll be here and have the stuff all ready."

"I know you will.  Thanks, Walter.  Now go home, or wherever you go when
you're not holed up in that friggin' office taking care of me."  He put
down the phone and closed his book.  He heard a cork pop in the kitchen,
and put on a pair of sweatpants before padding his way out to join his
roommates.

Craig was pouring a third glass of bubbly as he and Brett both started
humming the melody of "Hail to the Chief."

They clinked glasses and sipped.  "Thanks guys."  He sipped again.  "This
is great.  I just wish Marty was here."


Scott was unopposed in his bid for the presidency of the Wisconsin Student
Association Student Senate for a second term.  He promptly recommended
Walter Jameison for reappointment as clerk, and followed up with another
recommendation for a bump of the clerk's stipend.  Both passed without
opposition.


Four days later, he was in the office pounding out a quick email to Marty
when the phone rang.  He looked at the caller ID screen and grabbed the
receiver.  "Yeah, Radar, what's up?"

"Hey, Scott.  Elliot Lyman is here and is wondering if you have a few
minutes to meet with him."

Lyman was one of the newly elected members of the Student Senate.

Scott pulled open the file drawer of his desk and looked at the clock.
"Uhm, yeah.  Didn't get a chance to press the flesh with him during the
swearing in last night."  He fumbled through the tabs and found Lyman's
file folder.  "Ask him to give me about five minutes, will you?  I'm right
in the middle of something here, but will wrap it up, and casually mention
that I have to be in class in about a half hour, will ya'?"

"Gotcha, chief."

"Thanks.  Send him up in five."

He returned to the keyboard, and typed quickly.  "Well, bud, back to
business.  Newly elected member wants to pay a call, so it's get acquainted
time.  Love to Jill and Ashley, and don't forget to call when the stork
visits.  Be good, or don't get caught bein' bad."

He hit send and then opened the manila folder.  Everybody had to submit a
brief bio along with their nomination papers when they ran for the WSA
Student Senate, and Scott kept a copy of all of it in his desk for
reference.  Elliot was a junior who'd just made his first bid for the
university's student government, and had won handily.  He was a philosophy
major who'd graduated from Oconomowoc High School, about an hour east of
Madison.  He'd made the Dean's List every semester of his first two years,
and the GPA listed in the biography boasted a 3.8.  The printing on the
nomination papers was impeccable, Scott noted.  There was a tap on the door
frame.

"Scott?"

He stood and came around from behind the desk, extending a hand.  He
smiled.  "Elliot, please come on in.  Sorry to keep you waiting."

Elliot Lyman was a small young man, maybe five foot six, with a very
slender, nearly frail build.  He had straight jet-black hair that fell down
on his forehead and just touched the top of his ears.  The eyes were a rich
brown and were piercing in their gaze.  If he needed to shave very often
one would never know it from his smooth face.  The features were sharp.
Sharp nose, sharp chin, thin lips.  He accepted Scott's hand with a weak
grasp and smiled.  "No problem.  I know you're a busy guy and probably
should have called ahead."

Scott gestured to the chair in front of his desk and returned to his own.
"Not a problem.  Trying to call me here is tough anyway, as I don't keep
very regular hours here.  Depends on what's going on with my classes.  But
I hope Walter told you I'm not long for the office today.  Class in about a
half hour."

Lyman nodded as he set his backpack on the floor and sat down.  "Yeah he
did.  Not a problem, because I do too.  I just wanted to drop in and
introduce myself since we're going to be working together."

Scott interrupted, "And I apologize for not making the time to meet you
last night when we were sworn in."

Elliot gave a subtle wave of his hand.  "No worries.  Congratulations, by
the way on the unanimous re-election as president."

Scott grinned and nodded.  "And I thank you for your vote."  There was an
awkward pause.  "So is this just a get acquainted visit, or is there
something specific I can do for you."

Elliot mulled it over briefly.  "Well...yes and yes.  I mean, it is sort of
a `courtesy get to know you' visit, but I do want to make a request.  I
just didn't want to make it in a stale e-mail.  I wanted to make it
personally."

Scott's eyebrows rose.  "Committee assignment?"  Right after he was
re-elected president Scott had thanked the members of the Student Senate,
and had asked them to e-mail their committee assignment preferences within
two weeks.

"Yeah, I'm real serious about my request and it seemed to me that a
personal, face to face appeal might mean more than some faceless e-mail."

Scott pursed his lips and nodded.  "Makes sense.  So what's your goal,
Elliot?"

"Finance.  I'd like to chair the budget committee.  Next to your post,
that's probably the best position from which to make a difference around
here.  I mean, I ran for this with the encouragement of a lot of classmates
and friends, and want to really help shape the priorities of the WSA and
student life."

Scott smiled.  "Well, the power of the purse is an awful lot of power, I
admit.  We control a lot of student fees that are doled out to dozens of
campus organizations, and it really can make a difference in the college
lives of our friends and fellow students and even the community around us.
The budgeting is probably the single biggest expression of our priorities."

Elliot's eyes widened and he nodded enthusiastically.  "I know.  And I
wanted to let you know that I'd like to work with you in shaping those
priorities from the chair of the WSA's finance committee.  You were pretty
clear, and eloquent last night, about wanting to continue to maintain and
improve the quality of student life, and I want to help you do that."  He
paused.  "I just wanted to let you know that right away and in person."
Scott glanced at the clock again, a gesture that wasn't lost on Elliot.  "I
know you need to get going, and so do I.  I just want to let you know that
I admired your work on our behalf last year, both in this office and among
the Regents.  I've followed the news coming out of the WSA pretty closely
since I started school here, and the work you've done has been very
impressive."

Scott smiled and looked down somewhat shyly.  "Well thank you, Elliot."

"And I want to jump on board and work with you in the coming year in the
most meaningful possible way."

Elliot stood and then leaned down to pick up his backpack.  "Well, thanks
for your time, Scott.  I hope you'll be able to honor my request.  I don't
know if you've already begun settling those committee assignments, or if
you already have somebody else in mind, but I hope you'll give this bid of
mine serious consideration."  He extended his small, bony hand across the
desk.

Scott noted again the weakness of his grip.  "I haven't even gotten back
requests from all the members yet, and probably won't finalize things until
a day or two before our next meeting.  But I appreciate your interest and
your obvious conviction.  I can't make any promises right now, but I do
look forward to working with you."

Lyman smiled somewhat meekly.  "And me with you.  Thanks for your time.
I'll let you go."  He turned and quietly walked out the door.

`Icabod Crane,' Scott thought.  `That's who he reminds me of, a young,
perhaps smaller version of how I've always pictured Icabod Crane.  All he
needs is a horse and a three-cornered hat.'

Scott shut down his computer and locked the office door.  On his way out,
he paused by the front desk.  Walter was nowhere to be seen.  "Radar?  You
still here?"

The clerk appeared from around the corner with a mouthful of submarine
sandwich.  "Yep.  Sorry, was just grabbing lunch."

"You're entitled.  Hey, do we keep copies of all the campaign materials
folks use when they run for office?"

Walter swallowed.  "Oh yeah."  Then he grinned and motioned with his thumb
and index finger.  "Hell, my file on your two campaigns is about this
thick," indicating a couple of inches.

Scott grinned.  "You can thank Craig and Marty for that.  They really
pumped out the B.S., especially last year.  Anyway, will you pull out
Lyman's stuff and put it in my mailbox?  I want to get another look on the
stuff he ran on, see where he's coming from."

Walter wiped his lips with a napkin.  "It'll be there when you come in
next."

Scott looked at the clock.  "That'll be tomorrow morning, but right now I
have to run.  See ya' then."

"See ya' later, chief."


The next day he hummed and smiled as he slid into his own parking space.
Securing a reserved parking spot on campus for the WSA President had been a
coup.  It was a new perk that Walter had arranged and given to Scott as a
gift upon his re-election.  It was right outside the building that housed
the WSA offices, and it really pissed off the support staff of the
University's Buildings and Grounds and Financial Aid staff, both of whom
occupied the building right next door and who had to park in the ramp three
blocks away.  It was sweet.

Scott grabbed the backpack from the passenger's seat and his travel mug,
locked the car door and made his way inside.  True to his word as always,
Walter had left the Lyman campaign file in his mailbox.  Scott juggled the
backpack and the mug and retrieved the folder, then ambled up the stairs
and settled in at his desk.  He booted up his computer and opened the file
folder.  The contents were thin, but this had been Elliot's first run for
the WSA.  Another copy of his bio, the finance report, two fliers that
would have been handed out or left on doorknobs and two posters that would
have been stapled to kiosks around campus.

The finance report listed twenty-five or so donors and none of the names
rang a bell with Scott.  He read through the campaign literature.  "Very
vanilla," he muttered to himself, and then thought, `pretty good
politician, I guess.  Spends a handful of words that say next to nothing.'
The promotional stuff touted his Wisconsin roots, his strong GPA, his
loyalty to the UW and his strong desire to promote and protect the
interests of the `average student.'  "Hmmm," he muttered out loud.  "Little
bit of a populist in there.  `The `average student.'  Wonder what the hell
he means by that."

The computer was warmed up now, so Scott opened the spreadsheet of the
latest election results Radar had compiled.  It showed that Lyman had
kicked ass over his opponent, unseating an incumbent from the fraternity
crowd whom Scott had considered to be lazy and fairly worthless anyway.

`Probably a pretty good bet, our Mr. Lyman.  Kind of an odd duck, in a way,
but somebody I think I can work with.  Besides, don't have anybody else to
go with on this one.  And he did go out of his way to make a personal
appeal, after all.  That counts for something, too.'  He opened a fresh
word document and began building his list of committee assignments.
"Finance, Chair: Elliot Lyman."


Scott rolled over in bed, partially roused from a deep sleep.  What the
fuck was that?  When the fog cleared, it dawned on him.  `That was the
damned cell phone.'  That's what that was.  The cell phone.  But it had
stopped ringing.  He looked at the clock.  3:16 a.m.  He checked the
screen.  "One missed call."  He punched `view,' and saw Marty's initials.
He smiled and stretched, then rolled out of bed and lumbered into the
kitchen for a glass of water.  He returned and switched on the bedside lamp
and then took a long drink, coughed and cleared his throat.  Then he hit
`reply.'

"Yo!"

"How's my godson?"

Marty giggled.  "Fit as a fiddle and ready to take advantage of you at
every turn.  Nine pounds, one ounce.  Ten fingers, ten toes, strong heart
and lungs, full head of hair and hung like a mule.  Got done screaming his
brains out a half hour ago and now feeding like a little pig."

"A keeper."

"Gonna look like his mom, except for the hung like a mule part."

"Thank God for that.  Takes after his godfather."

"Ha!  Yeah, right."

"Send me some pictures."

"I will.  Gimme a couple days.  His skin is still pretty blotchy and his
head still looks kinda goofy.  Plus, Jill is still all sweaty and crap.
I'm gonna let their bodies settle into the normal mode and then take a
bunch of pics for everybody to see.  Actually, Scotty, newborns are
beautiful on one level, just `cuz they're yours, but they're not exactly
cute.  The nurse says it takes a day or so before they become really cute.
But this lad is going to be a hottie.  He'll be a lady killer."

Scott adjusted the pillows and sat upright.  He chuckled.  "And how's Jill
doing?"

"She's unbelievable, Scott.  Thirteen hours of labor.  I could never do
what she just did, and wouldn't want to if I could I don't think.  But even
as a spectator, more or less, it was the single most emotional experience
of my life."  His voice cracked and he sniffed.  "I don't think it's
possible to completely describe the physical and emotional worlds that
she's been in the last day, or what I've gone through even as the lowly
dad.  The nurse said it was a tough delivery, but not the hardest she's
ever seen.  I only started crying four or five times, but she never grabbed
my privates and told me what a fucker I was for doing this to her."

Scott laughed.  "Is Ashley there?"

"No.  She's at Jill's folks' place.  She knows what's going on, but we knew
it was gonna go long and late, so we made her camp out at the grandfolks'.
I'm gonna take a nap in the lounge here, and then go home, shower and then
go and get her."

"You sound tired.  Go take your nap and call me again when you can.  I'll
plan a visit as soon as it works for you guys."  He paused.  "Give Jill and
Ashley and little Scott a kiss and a hug for me, and keep some for
yourself."

Marty paused.  "Love you, too, professor."

"Go take your nap, and take good care of my godson."

"Go back to sleep."

"Love you."

"And we all love you, too."

Scott hung up the phone.  He laid on his back for fifteen minutes and
stared at the ceiling with a grin on his face.  Finally, he muttered "fuck
it," and then put his feet on the floor, slowly slid into his robe and went
to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.


Will Maxson sighed when he looked at the three piles of mail.  There was a
large manila envelope in the third pile, and he recognized the return
address.  Iowa.  "Shit," he muttered as he grabbed for the letter opener.
He slit the seal, and got up and closed the door.  `Wonder what we're gonna
get today, and when Frick is gonna call,' he mused as he returned to his
desk.  "Aw fuck."  He picked up the receiver and dialed Clara.

"Yes, Mr. Maxson."

"Clara," he cleared his throat.  "Please bring me a bank bag and a deposit
slip and a disclosure form.  I'm going to take care of this week's
contributions to the campaign committee myself."

There was a long, very pregnant pause.  "I can do that sir.  I'll be right
in."

"Thank you."  Will squared the checks into a tidy pile, totaling over two
hundred thousand, and set them in the center drawer and then slid the
envelope into the shredder.  Then he began working on the mail addressed to
him personally with the opener.  There was a knock on the door.  "Come on
in Clara."  He was sweating profusely and she was frowning.  She put the
financial forms and deposit bag on his desk, turned and left.

Scott was humming when he sauntered in.  "Hey, Clara.  What's shakin'
today?"

She was hammering hard on the keyboard and Scott couldn't imagine brows
being knit any tighter.  She didn't look up.  "I have no earthly idea
what's `shakin' as you say.  No idea at all anymore."

Scott stepped back from the desk and thought `Whoa!'  He cleared his
throat.  "Is the chief in?

She typed harder and faster.  "He's in, but he's busy at the moment.  I'll
have him call you if you need."

He stepped back another two steps.  "Uhm, yeah, Clara.  That'd be great.
You need anything?  Want me to run to the bank on the way out today?"

She huffed.  "Nope.  Mr. Maxson is handling the deposit himself again,
including putting the paperwork together.  He's working on it now and will
be handling the whole thing on his own."  She paused and looked up.  "Don't
ask."

"Uhm, okay.  But will you ask Mr. Maxson to give me a call when he has a
minute.  I need to ask him something."  Scott turned and left and took a
deep breath.  `What the Hell?' he thought as he moseyed to his cube.  He
had simply wanted to ask Will for a little extra time off to go to the
baptism in Rockford in a few weeks.  It was no big deal, and he'd been
there long enough now to earn the time off.

He made his way back to his cube, took off his coat and looked left.  There
was Grant's red mop top peeking over the top of his cube.  "What's up
Corny?"

A thin, bony hand slowly rose with the middle finger extended.  Scott
chuckled.  Cornell stood.  "Lunch today?"

"Ella's at 12:30.  I got a two o'clock, a four and a study group tonight."

"Poor boy."


Scott chomped into a greasy, cheesy Reuben sandwich and chewed.  His friend
looked stressed.  He swallowed and gulped on the Coke.  "What has you
looking like death today?"

Grant shook his head.  "Frick."  Grant munched on a fry.  "He stopped by
with a long list of questions about the environmental shit I sent to Will.
Said it wasn't specific enough.  Wanted chapter and verse of which laws and
which administrative reg's would have to be altered, and how they'd need to
be changed in order to accomplish...A, B and C."  He sipped his iced tea.
"Like a dummy, I grabbed a copy of the caucus report from the start of the
session, and I'm like `Sorry Senator, but I didn't see any of this on the
adopted caucus agenda for the session.  I guess I misunderstood what was
expected.  I was going to ask around if this stuff looked like where we
were supposed to be headed.  Well he just cuts me off like Jack the Ripper!
He's getting all red in the face and shit, and practically spitting in my
face.  `You'll do no such thing!  This is a project you're working on for
me!  You'll not bring this to Maxson!  You'll not bring this to McCarthy!
You'll bring this right back to me, or your ass will be out on the street!
Do you understand?"

Scott put down his sandwich and just stared.

Grant put up his hands and shrugged.  "But it gets better!  A half hour
later, Will drops by all sweaty and baggy and looking like hell and just
says, `Give Senator Frick what he wants, will you?' And that's all he says.
So I just nod and say, `sure thing.'"

They walked out of Ella's Deli together again.  "Just do what the chief
says, Grant."  Scott patted him on the shoulder.  "We don't know what the
hell is going on.  Sometimes `just following orders' is an acceptable
defense if something is going wrong.  Frick told you what to do.  Will told
you what to do.  For now, just do it.  But keep good notes.  Start jotting
down the visits from Frick or Will in your day planner, and save all your
notes on a disk in addition to your hard drive.  If you feel the need,
bring your own laptop to work and start keeping a second record on a
computer, then do that too.  Remember, everything you generate on the
computer in your cube is state property and subject to public inspection.
But if you do that, be discreet about it.  Make sure you frame everything
in an `I was directed to...' kind of voice."

Grant nodded.  "Thanks, Scott."

"Keep me posted."  They parted ways to head to their separate classes.

************** Scott's poli-sci class on political parties had just ended.
His professor, Dr. Shelby Stellpflug was shuffling papers.  She looked over
her glasses.  "Mr. Turner.  You're either dawdling or you have something on
your mind.  I'm guessing it's the latter."

Scott zipped his backpack.  "Well, uhm, Dr. Stellpflug, I do have a
question."

Shelby Stellpflug had been an assistant secretary of Health and Human
Services in the previous administration, and a long-time member of the
Republican National Committee.  She was, as far as Scott could tell, one of
the few true conservatives on the faculty's campus, but was well regarded,
fair and had a wealth of experience in partisan politics.

"Why didn't you ask it during class?"

"Well, it didn't really pertain to today's lecture or discussion."

"I see.  Good for you.  I hate distracting questions that get us off on
tangents."

Scott grinned.  "But I think it's something you could clarify for me, given
your experiences."

"Okay."  She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and looked
directly at him.  "I'll do what I can."

"Well, professor, it's a campaign finance issue.  We haven't discussed
state regulations much, but," he thought for a moment, "and please don't
misunderstand me here...but, uhm, how can people or organizations work to
get around the limits that are in place?"

She cleared her throat.  "Mr. Turner.  I'll assume you're not asking this
for any nefarious reasons.  But I do know you're working part-time for the
party caucus.  I also know that just about everybody who has been there for
any length of time knows these things."  She paused again and chewed on her
pen for a second.  "And, I'll tell you...I still have connections on both
sides of the aisle here in Madison.  And if it ever looked to me like
something stinky was coming out of that caucus, I'd be the first one to
pick up the phone and let the prosecutor's office know that you were asking
these questions."

Scott met her gaze.  "No problems there, Dr. Stellpflug.  I wouldn't expect
anything else from you."

She sized him up for another few moments, and then finally she grinned.
"Well, the most common thing for somebody or a group with a cause or an axe
to grind is to set up a bunch of `straw man' donors.  Then you bundle the
donations."

"Huh?"

Shelby leaned back on the table.  "In blunt terms somebody either has, or
raises, a ton of money, more than could be legally donated by any one
person or organization.  Then you find enough people willing to `launder'
it for you.  You give them a check for the limited amount, and they write a
check to the candidate or the committee for the same amount.  So it's not
coming from you.  It's coming from all these different people, but it's
coming in all at once.  Then, you make sure the candidate or committee
chair knows where it's coming from and why."

"Is it legal to take money from donors from another state?"

She grinned wryly.  "Happens all the time.  There are ideologues all over
the country with their own agendas, and they know that a lot of those
battles are fought in state legislators.  School choice is a good example.
I have friends on the right who are big on home schooling and school choice
who would love to knock the legs out from under the state teacher's union.
They're in Michigan, New York, Florida and they routinely contribute to
like-minded candidates here in Wisconsin."  She smiled again.  "Remember,
Scott.  Most of the political `movin' and groovin' in this country doesn't
really happen in Washington.  It just looks that way.  But you know that
state government touches your life more than Congress does.  The
University, public schools, roads, speed limits, the sales tax, marriage,
divorce and on and on and on.  All those issues are debated and settled
where you work."  She chuckled.  "Hells bells.  Unless you mail a letter,
enlist in the military, smuggle drugs or are an illegal alien, when do you
ever come in contact with Uncle Sam?  And in that last category, you almost
never do."

She continued.  "And then there are the notorious so-called `independent
expenditures.'  Let's say that I'm a zealot against abortion who heads a
political action committee devoted to the crusade, and have been good at
raising money.  I'll scour the landscape looking for candidates who are
like-minded and pay for advertising on my own in support of their
candidacy.  Unfortunately, it's often attack ads against their opponents
and rarely is it truly independent.  Usually the candidates and their
committees are quietly communicating with the PACs who are doing this
behind the scenes.  But the candidate being supported can say with a
straight face, `I'm not doing it.  They are.  I can't prevent it.'  And
it's not a donation to their campaign, so the finance regulations don't
apply.  It's free speech."

Scott mulled it over quietly.  Dr. Stellpflug raised her eyebrows and
looked over her glasses.  "I'm tempted to press you on why you're asking
all these questions, Mr. Turner, but I'll resist.  I'm confident that if
you sense something awry, you'll do the right thing."

Scott forced a smile and picked up his backpack.  "No problem, professor.
Just had a discussion during lunch about this stuff with a friend of mine,
and wanted to go into our next go-round well armed."

She bit her pen again and then put it down.  "I see."

He headed for the door.  "Well, thanks for you time, and for letting me
pick your brain."

Stellpflug smiled.  "Any time, Scott.  Any time at all."

He waved and headed down the hallway.  He thought to himself, `I gotta call
Maureen.'



Author's Note: Your comments, criticisms or questions are always welcomed.
I appreciate the e-mails at scotty.13411@hotmail.com