Date: Tue, 5 Feb 2008 03:35:07 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: "FORK IN THE ROAD,"  Chapter 9

FORK IN THE ROAD
By Scott Turner
Chapter 9

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


Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction that occasionally contains rather
graphic depictions of sexual activity between consenting adult men.  If
that's no your cup of tea, or if it is illegal for you to possess or read
such material, then please go elsewhere.  This story is copyrighted, 2008,
and may not be reproduced, reposted or published without the expressed
permission of the author.


Scott bound into the WSA office in a great mood.  It was a beautiful, crisp
fall day and he'd put in a good five miles that morning before laughing
through a decent breakfast with both of his roommates.  Things at the
capitol were pretty cool and calm, and he was well prepped for his
afternoon classes.  He smiled.  "What's up Radar?"

The clerk rolled his eyes.  "Check your mailbox.  Mr. Lyman has been busy
the last couple of days.  You're gonna love it."

He pulled the committee's recommendation out and took a couple minutes to
peruse it.  His face slowly became clouded in gloom.  He raised one eyebrow
and looked up at Walter.  "This is some sort of a joke, isn't it?"

Walter shrugged.  "Well, he was grinning when he dropped it off, but I
think it was more satisfaction on his part than it was a sense of humor.
I'm not sure he has one of those."

Scott shook his head.  "Un-fucking-believable!  This is lunacy."  He headed
toward the stairs.  "I gotta call this crazy fucker."

Walter hollered behind him.  "Good luck with that!"

Scott dug out Elliot's cell number and dialed it.  It went straight to
voicemail.  "Hi, Elliot.  This is Scott Turner.  Got your committee's
proposal this afternoon and would like to discuss it with you at your
convenience.  Give me a call when you can.  Thanks."

He sat back and looked over the proposal again.  Lyman's committee had
gutted three organizations entirely, and significantly cut the fees
allocated to two others that would have been considered as `gay friendly'
to most who were paying attention.

He sighed and thought, `Well, I could shelve it, but I think that would cut
off everybody.  I don't have to bring it up for a vote, but then no money
would get sent out at all.  Bad plan.'  He snorted. `Shrewd move on
Elliot's part, if he's trying what I think he's trying.  Hold the funds for
all the other organizations hostage in order to cut the funds to the groups
he doesn't like.'

He picked up the phone and punched Radar's extension.  "Yep?  What's up,
chief?"

"Walter, correct me if I'm wrong, but under our bylaws and constitution, I
don't really have veto power, and by protocol I really shouldn't be
offering amendments to committee proposals, right?"

"Uhm, yeah, you got it.  You can schedule meetings, set the agenda, decide
if and when something's going to come up for a vote, except under certain
specific circumstances, and preside over the discussion and debate.  But,
no, you can't veto anything they adopt, and the motions to amend have to
come from the floor."

Scott's jaw clenched for a second.  "Shit.  That's what I thought.  We'll
have to discuss those `certain specific circumstances.'"

Walter sighed.  "Yep.  Let me know when.  Sucks being you some days.
Lonely at the top sometimes, Scott."

Scott chuckled.  "Thanks a bunch, Radar.  You're a shit load of help."

The clerk giggled.  "Hey, I do what I can."



Maureen sliced her fork into the salmon filet in front of her and shrugged.
"Well, can you muster the votes to amend it?"

Scott sighed and shrugged.  "Not sure.  I called the two committee members,
Phil Wharton and Tara Bjorn who voted against it in committee, and I'm
going to talk to one other who is a very `out' lesbian activist, but
they'll need thirteen more to join them to make a majority.  I told them
they'd have to do most of the heavy lifting, but that they were free to say
they had my support, if that matters at all."

She put down the fork and sipped her water.  "And what about the twerp,
what's his name?  Lyman?"

Scott rolled his eyes.  "Asshole isn't answering my voicemails or my
e-mails, the little weasel."

Maureen scoffed.  "Sounds like a gutless shit.  I'd say it might be time
for a little game of chicken with the bastard.  Send him another message
that says `this isn't going to see the light of day until you've at least
had the chance to discuss it.'  You don't have to schedule it for a vote at
all, do you?"

"No I don't.  But if I take that path several dozen other organizations
will have their funds frozen, too, and a lot of them do great work: `Coats
for Kids,' another group that volunteers at the Humane Society, groups of
students who tutor and coach kids in the community; that kind of stuff.  I
don't want to cut them all off just to spite this shit head."

Maureen leaned on the table.  "Double check that in your organizational
rules, Scotty. Where I work, if we fail to pass a budget by deadline, which
is often the case, the old funding stays in place until we get our shit
together.  But then, make it clear to your Mr. Lyman that what his
committee has proposed is simply unacceptable, that you're still the
friggin' president of the WSA and that HE is the one putting all those good
causes at risk.  Make HIM own it.  Do it quietly at first, behind closed
doors, but make sure he knows you're willing to hang him with it publicly
if he doesn't step back and give a little.  This doesn't have to become a
public pissing match, but if you believe in it you should be ready to take
it there and make him believe it.  You might have to compromise on the
dollar amounts, but if zero funding for those groups isn't acceptable to
you, then don't accept it."  She chuckled.  "Time to strap on an extra set
of balls, Scotty."

He choked on a bite of his prime rib and almost knocked over the glass of
water when he grabbed for it.

Maureen smirked and shrugged casually.  "God knows I've had to do just that
more than once.  It's not usually comfortable, but sometimes necessary."



The Badgers were up by ten points over Michigan State with only two minutes
to go.  Greg and Scott sat next to each other in the student section, and
their thighs hadn't broken contact since the first kickoff, except when
they'd stood to cheer.

During a TV timeout, Scott leaned over.  "Hey, next weekend the Badgers are
on the road.  Let's get out of town.  I know it's the Halloween Party and
all that shit, but I've been there, done that.  Honestly, I don't think
it's your scene.  Mobs of drunks, shoulder to shoulder, or in your face.
It's kind of amusing, but it's also more than a little bit of madness.
Let's head up to the Dells or over to Milwaukee or something."

Greg bit his lip.  "Uhm, next weekend isn't good for me.  Team
commitments. I wasn't planning on heading to State Street for Halloween
anyway, but Coach Bidwell would have a cow if I was gone.  Maybe some other
weekend."

Around seven p.m., Scott lumbered up the stairs in the apartment.  It was
something of a struggle, as his thighs were shot.  `Shit, I gotta start
running every day again,' he told himself.  After the game, he'd pummeled
Greg for a good twenty minutes following some very erotic and imaginative
foreplay, and they both worked hard for the explosive orgasms they enjoyed.
Scott could still see Greg's hands gripping the comforter on his bed as he
held Greg's ankles high and pounded away while Greg moaned from below.

Brett was over at Angie's place, but Craig was in the living room watching
ESPN, catching up on the day's NCAA football action across the country.
Scott grabbed a beer and sat down to join him.

"Good game today, huh?"  The dog wandered in and promptly buried his snout
into Scott's crotch.

Scott grabbed the collar and pulled the dog back, telling him to sit.  He
did as ordered and looked up with great expectations of a good ear
scratching.  Scott took a long swig of beer and then did as the dog's eyes
asked.  "Yeah.  Nice day, another win for the good guys.  Shit!  They could
repeat at the Rose Bowl if they keep it up."  The fattest cat in the world
wandered in and obviously wasn't going to tolerate Scott's singular
attention to the dog.  He bounded up onto Scott's lap demanding equal time
and treatment.  Scott set down his beer and worked the dog's ears with his
left hand and the cat's chin with his right.

Craig looked over during commercial break.  "You hungry?"

"Yeah.  Had a dog at the game, but that's about it since breakfast.  Whatca
got in mind?"

"Picked up some French bread, some sauce, pepperoni and cheese.  Was gonna
make a French bread pizza.  Want some?"

"Sounds great.  I'm gonna shower and get into my jammies.  You can cook and
then I'll beat your ass in Cribbage."

"Dollar a game, penny a point?"

Scott shoved the cat onto the floor and got an evil glare in return.
"You're on.  Back in twenty."

As he dried himself after the shower, he saw the first hickey between his
scrotum and right thigh.  He chuckled.  Then, as he raised his arm to
finish the job he saw the second one in the mirror.  It was barely inside
his left armpit.  `What a fucking animal,' he grinned.

After putting on some fresh shorts, sweatpants and a thermal long sleeved
t-shirt, he wandered back to the living room.  Craig was on the phone.
"Nope.  Had a rare Saturday off, but spent most of it at the library.  Not
a bad day all in all.  Your prodigy just walked back in all squeaky clean.
You want to talk to him?  You don't have to, but he might get jealous if
you don't."  Craig chuckled.  "Okay here he is."  He handed the phone over.
"It's Big Scott."

"Hey.  What's up bud?  Great game today."

"Yeah.  Caught it on TV.  Can't talk long.  Your mom is delirious and
thinks she's going to give me a lesson in Scrabble."

"Ah, the excitement of the older folks on a Saturday night.  We're going to
munch on some pizza and play Cribbage.  I'm guessing there's maybe four or
five extra dollars on my horizon with this sap.  Craig's eyes didn't leave
the TV, but he flipped off his roommate anyway.

Big Scott scoffed.  "Screw you, sonny.  You're home at eight on a Saturday
night, getting ready to nibble on some French bread pizza and play cards.
And you call yourself a college student?"

"A responsible college student, being a good boy on a Saturday night."  He
thought back to the afternoon.  `After being a pretty naughty boy a few
hours ago,' he thought.

"Well, we're not going to make it down there for Homecoming, but do you
want to have lunch on Tuesday?"

Scott's eyes widened.  "You're going to be in town?"

"Yeah.  Meeting with some of the party folks to prep for the candidate
training workshop I'm going to in a couple weeks.  And, I need to meet with
a client I have down there who wants to re-work her will.  Thought about
hot pastrami at Ella's and a sit-down with my favorite son."

"Your only son."  Scotty walked to the kitchen and propped the phone
between his ear and shoulder.  He reached into the fridge.

"How'dya think you became my favorite?"

He set the bottles on the counter and held onto the receiver
again. "Tuesday it is, then.  Call my cell when you get into town.  I'll be
at work `til noon, and don't have class `til two on Tuesdays.  Should work
out perfect."

"Sounds like a plan, man."

"Is Mom there?  Lemme talk to her."  As he waited for his mom to grab the
phone he opened the beers and walked back to the living room.  Scott and
Suzanne chatted for about ten more minutes.  Craig walked in with a big
plate full of pizza.  "Well, my dear, dinner is served by my able
manservant."  Craig set down the plate, handed Scott a new beer and then
grabbed his crotch.  "So, I guess I'll talk to you later.  Take the old boy
to the cleaners on the Scrabble board.  Uh-huh.  Love you too.  G'night."



Underestimating others was not Scott's habit, but he'd been emboldened by
his dinner conversation with Maureen.  He bought into her `game of chicken'
argument but he still didn't fully appreciate what made Elliot Lyman tick.
He was reading an e-mail from Marty when the phone rang.  Jill was still
sick and they'd scrapped the Homecoming plans.

"Yeah, Radar.  What's up?"

"Lyman's on his way up the stairs."

Scott was determined to come out swinging, hoping this worm would fold
right away.  He stepped into the hallway to greet him.  "Elliot.  Thanks
for coming in."  Scott stepped aside to allow entrance to the office.  They
did not shake hands.

Lyman wore a thinly veiled sneer and plopped into a chair.  "Well, this
feels like a command performance.  Your last message wasn't exactly an
invitation, it was a directive."

"Well," Scott sat down.  "You completely ignored two voice mails and two
e-mails.  I needed you to understand that your committee's proposal was
going nowhere until we'd had a chance to discuss it face-to-face."

Elliot shrugged.  "Okay.  I'm here.  What's on your mind?"

Scott paused, and picked up the committee's recommendation.  "Honestly,
what's on my mind is that you folks must have been under the influence when
you passed this piece of crap."

Lyman actually laughed.  "For the record, Mr. Turner, I don't drink at all
and I've never consumed a drug that wasn't prescribed by a doctor.  Just
because a righteous majority stands up doesn't mean they're messed up.  The
only influence I'm under is that of the Word of God and Jesus Christ my
Lord."

Scott paused again, then leaned on the desk.  "Well, I speak with both of
them, my Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ my Lord every day.  They're good
guys chocked full of love and tolerance.  We're actually pretty good
friends.  And while your faith and piety might be admirable, I guess,
you're asking us to shove your narrow theology down the throats of some
forty-four thousand students, many of whom don't share your views.  You and
I represent Christians of all stripes, Jews, Muslims, agnostics and
atheists.  We represent straights, gays, bisexuals and who knows what else
I've never even though of.  They all pay these fees and can vote if the
spirit moves them to do so on Election Day.  I don't think it's fair to
base the fee disbursement on any one position of religious faith.  This is
a public university after all."

Elliot slapped his knees.  "And, as you said, many of them are fags and
dykes who have been robbing the rest of us who abhor their lifestyles of
student funds through the WSA.  It's wrong and it has to end.  And I aim to
end it.  Now."

Scott pursed his lips.  `Reason isn't going to work here,' he thought.  He
was reminded of an old line of his dad's and his grandmother's: `It's like
trying to teach a pig to sing.  It ain't gonna happen, it makes you look
like a dumb-ass in the process, and all it does is annoy the pig.'

Scott picked up the committee's proposal again.  "Well, tell you what.
Here are the likely scenarios."  He waived the recommendation at him.
Either you can take it back and make some reasonable changes, or this is
going to be amended by the full body.  In the process, we'll have a big,
ugly public debate and you're going to look like a nut before the good
folks who sent you to the WSA."

Elliot shrugged.  "Many more righteous men and women than I have been
called `nuts' in public.  I'll wear it as a badge of honor.  I know the
Lord my God is smiling on my efforts, and He and I don't need your vote.
Besides, you can't sit on this indefinitely, as you threatened.  You'll be
cutting off everybody else's funds too.  We'll carve you up and have you
for lunch if you try that ploy."

Scott's face clouded.  "Not too sure about cutting everybody else if we
don't act, Elliot.  It's never happened as far as I know, but our capable
clerk and me are combing over the archives, the bylaws and the constitution
of this fine body to determine what would happen if we didn't act.  But,
and mark my word.  I'm ready to hold onto this and all the other fees if
you're not ready to reflect and reconsider and come back to us with a
proposal that has some semblance of sanity to it."  He held up the proposal
once more.  "And I'm telling you now, this joke of a recommendation is
D.O.A. as far as I'm concerned."  Elliot stormed out, but grinned on his
way down the hall.  `Perfect.'

True to his word, Elliot struck first.  The following morning, Scott picked
up a copy of `The Badger Herald,' the conservative daily student newspaper
on campus.  "Turner Freezes Student Fees" read the headline.  He read the
article that described the WSA president's unwillingness to bring the
finance committee's recommendation up for a vote.  "The likely result would
be a stoppage of all student fees to all student organizations," the
article predicted.  On page 6 was the editorial.  "Pro-Gay Agenda a
Travesty for All Students."  Michael Billings, editor of the paper opined:
"Mr. Turner and his like-minded cronies at the WSA are holding hostage
funds to all student organizations solely for the purpose of advancing the
interests of gays and lesbians at the UW.  He seems more interested in
same-sex couplings than in academic support services, helping local kids
and senior citizens and intra-mural athletics.  We call on Scott Turner,
Jr. to bring the committee's budget up for a vote and demand that all
members of the WSA to earn their stipends and our trust by voting on it."



Scott pulled up the directory he had on his computer's desktop of the
current membership.  He didn't know Sonja Weiss very well, only by
reputation.  It seemed that she relished her public persona of a
ball-busting, in-you-face lesbian.  Scott considered her a "one-issue
wonder" with a very narrow agenda.  But when she spoke, people shut up and
listened, if only because she could be good theater.  And Radar had told
him that she didn't take herself all too seriously and had a great sense of
humor.

"HI, is this Sonja?"

"You bet.  Who's this?"

"Hi Sonja, it's Scott Turner."

She scoffed.  "Well, President Turner.  I was wondering when you might get
off your ass and check in.  The next meeting's only three weeks away and we
still have some heavy lifting and maybe arm twisting to do."

"Sorry, Sonja, I thought it best if I stand out of the way and not meddle
in your and Tara's and Phil's efforts to line up the votes needed to beat
Lyman on this crap."

"And you want to know how much water we've been able to carry for you so
far.  Is that it?"

Scott decided that this was a woman who just got a kick out of mixing it up
and that he wasn't going to take any crap from her.  "Well, it's not like
you're carrying water for just me ya' know.  You and your constituency, and
my constituency too, have more than a little at stake here.  But it's
important, if Lyman is going to get his ass kicked, that it come from off
the floor and not from the chair.  Like it or not, those are the rules.
You're carrying water for yourself too, ya' know.  Let's face it.  If I
just sat on my hands and let this thing come to a vote, you'd be making
this call and going berserk."

She laughed devilishly.  "Okay, ya' got me.  Just givin' you some shit."
Scott could hear her drag from her cigarette and exhale.  "I'd love to bend
that little puke over and spank him hard."  Scott laughed.  "And I'd make
him like it, the evil little fuck."

"I'd like nothing more, Sonja.  So where are we on the vote count?"

"Ha!  `We?'  Like you've had anything to do with it."  She was testing him
further.

"The hell with that.  Who is it getting beat up by `The Herald?'  Haven't
seen your name dragged through the shitty ink lately."

She took another long drag from her smoke.  "Fair enough, but you haven't
been here long enough.  I've taken my share.  So, Turner, fuck `The
Herald.'  That right-wing nutcase Billings is preaching to the choir.  I
wouldn't be surprised to find out that he and Lyman were sucking each other
off.  I got some buds at `The Cardinal" and on the campus radio station.
They're gonna start raising Hell the week before the next meeting.  Lotsa
good equal rights and civil rights stuff will be coming out that week with
Lyman's name prominently included in both print and radio."

Scott grinned.  "Sounds great!"

"But to answer your question, we're probably at 13 votes of the 16 we need
to amend.  I hope the fucker sticks to his guns until the meeting, `cuz I
want this bloodletting to be public.  I don't want him to get all
reasonable between now and then and do anything that might affect a
settlement.  I want to ram it down his throat in a public forum.
Hopefully, he'll have a `holy roller' meltdown right then and there.  So,
we're keeping our cards close to our chest for now.  Phil thinks he can
deliver one more vote to amend and so does Tara.  That probably puts us one
vote short.  I've got the other queers and dykes on the WSA in line,
regardless of how far back in the closet they are.  We might have to count
on pressure brought to bear by our own friends in the campus media to press
the right buttons to deliver the one or two more that last week."

"Ms. Weiss, I'm very impressed.  But I don't want to let Elliot's lunacy
come up for a vote until we have a lock on 16."

"Well, you oughta be impressed.  But Elliot Lyman is about to learn that
you don't fuck with the rights of Sonja Weiss without paying a price. If we
don't have the votes, then don't put it on the agenda. You still have two
weeks before you post it publicly."  There was a brief pause.  "Well Scott,
I gotta shove off.  Goin' to a pre-party Halloween party to get into makeup
and costume.  Me and a bunch of friends are going downtown tonight as the
entire cast of `Rocky Horror.'  It's gonna be great."

Scott laughed.  "Sounds very cool.  I'm not going this year, but my buds
and me tore it up last year.  We nailed down most of the best parts of
`Batman.'

She snickered.  "Yeah, I know.  I remember.  You guys owned the place."

Scott grinned with pride.  "Yeah, just me and two hundred thousand of my
closest friends."

She chuckled.  "But remember, Turner, if push comes to shove, you just
might have to cast the tie breaker and then take about a hundred percent of
the shit for it."

"And you don't think I'm bright enough to have already thought about that?"

"Not what I said.  Just had to say it.  Don't sweat it.  You'll get used to
me."

Scott's smile hadn't faded.  "I already am, Sonja."

"Just do me this: make sure I have the floor as often as possible.  I want
to take this slimy fucker to `Sonja School.'

Scott giggled.  "I'm sure it will do the minister's son some good."

"Okay, Scott.  I gotta run.  Let's talk again the week before the meeting.

"Whatever you say."

"Good attitude.  Have a good night."

"And you have fun."

"I always do.  Talk to you later."  And the line went dead.

After the chat, Scott was feeling a little bit better.  He leaned back in
his chair and relaxed for a few minutes, watching the fattest cat in the
world wash his face, his gut drooping onto the wood floor.  He rested a few
minutes more before getting up to grab his sweats and running shoes. As he
tied his shoes his mind went back to Elliot Lyman.  `That fucker,' he
thought to himself.  `And his friend or friends at the Badger Herald.
Jesus Christ!  We fund fraternities, sororities, environmental groups,
intra-mural athletic groups and a nerdy library group among others, and
that fucker Lyman has a hard on for a few groups that are friendly to the
same sex crowd.

And then he went back to Maureen's counsel.  "Time to play a game of
chicken," she'd said.  "Tell him to make adjustments in the budget or it's
not coming up for a vote at all."  He muttered out loud.  "Thanks a lot
honey.  This is gonna be a shit-load of fun.  This nasty bastard ain't
backing down."  How the hell could he justify to the whole body holding the
budget back just because of the gay and lesbian funding thing?  "Fuck."

He ran hard for the first twenty minutes.  Passing State Street he had to
slow because the barricades were already up and the bars were beginning to
fill with all sorts of ghouls and demons.  The sun hadn't even set yet.  He
notched it back into high gear for another twenty minutes and then kicked
it back down to a pretty mellow jog.  He'd hoped to spend at least part of
the weekend hanging out with Greg.  Even if the coach did have plans for
the team, he suspected it was more about keeping them away from State
Street during the weekend without actually saying so.  Surely Coach Bidwell
wasn't holding them hostage somewhere from Friday night until Monday
morning.  An hour into his run he found himself trotting past Greg's dorm.

He knocked on the door to Greg's room.  "Whoa!  Hang on!  Be right there!"
Greg shouted.  Scott could hear what sounded like a flurry of activity
inside and some muffled giggles.  The door cracked open and Greg peered out
between a couple inches of the opening.  "Oh, Hey!"

Scott forced a smile.  "Just running past.  Thought I'd drop in and say
howdy."

Greg's eyes glanced right and he nodded once before he opened the door.  He
was shirtless in sweatpants, and slowly opened the door inviting Scott
inside.  His chest had a light sheen of perspiration.  "C'mon in."  A very
hot young man in gym shorts sat on the edge of Greg's bed.  "Uhm...Scott,
this is my high school buddy Nick Torres.  Nick, this is Scott Turner."

Nick was a short, well-built young man whose Cuban heritage showed.  He
failed miserably in the effort to hide the wood behind his gym shorts as he
stood to shake Scott's hand.  Maybe about five-foot seven with a broad
chest that shone in sweat just like Greg's.  He sported the beginning of a
goatee that framed a very pleasant if nervous smile.

Scott leaned against the wall.  "Hope I didn't wake you guys.  Like I said,
I was just out for a run and was cruising by here..."

"No problem."  Greg forced a smile.  "Nick's in town for the weekend.  We
went out to a party last night for a while, but didn't misbehave too
badly."  He laughed nervously and Scott just nodded.

Scott looked at Nick.  "So you're the buddy who used to play against this
mope back in high school?"

Nick grinned shyly.  "Yeah.  Our teams were mortal enemies, conference
rivals forever.  But we always got along pretty good."

Scott propped up off the wall.  "Well it's cool you could come for a
visit."  He looked at Greg.  "I should get going.  Just wanted to say
`hey.'  Hope you guys have a great weekend."

Greg just nodded nervously.

As he opened the door, he just couldn't resist.  He looked right.  "And
Nick?"  Scott brushed the right side of his own head with his fingers.
"You have what looks to be a glob of cum in your hair.  Might want to take
care of that before you guys go anywhere today.  Good to meet you."  And he
was gone.

He ran hard on his way back to the apartment.  Walking past a yawning Brett
without saying a word, he went straight for the bathroom.  He turned on the
water and adjusted the temperature.  He pulled the knob to engage the
shower and got in.  He cursed himself for feeling jealous and jacked his
tool with a vengeance.  He dried himself, wrapped the towel around his
waist and went to his room.  He picked up his cell phone.  He got her
voicemail.  "Hey, Kelly.  It's me.  Gimme a call when you can.  Let's talk
about Homecoming when you have a few minutes."

He put on a pair of boxers and lay down to take a nap.



The November elections that first week of the month had been light in terms
of challenged seats and in turnout on Election Day.  But it was a good day
for Maureen and the party.  One more vote in the State Senate for Maureen,
strengthening both she and Jeremy Frick.  The election night party downtown
was a relatively light affair since the party's winner was from a district
in far northern Wisconsin about seven hours away by car.  Still, the party
had a nice little shindig downtown.  Scott stopped in, munched a couple
appetizers and had a Coke.  Then he kissed Maureen on the cheek and headed
back to the apartment early.



Will shuddered when he picked up the envelope with the Iowa postmark.  Fall
elections had just come and gone, but here was another thick envelope.  It
didn't make any sense at all, donations coming in right after the
elections.  Will sighed and split the seal with his letter opener.
Seventy-five thousand in all.  Will just shook his head and went to work on
the documentation and the paperwork.

 "Okay, Scooter, time for us to get busy.  We're one vote stronger.  He
handed Scott a synopsis of the environmental proposal he'd crafted.  "Need
you to run down all thirty-three members and summarize their voting records
on stuff like this.  Going to introduce it early in the coming session, and
I need to know where everybody in both parties stand."  There was steel in
his gaze.  "We need this to pass without any bluster or noise."



The Department of Natural Resources, "The DNR," one of the most powerful
agencies in Wisconsin's state government; powerful in the sense that it
touched practically every citizen whether they knew it or not.  They
harbored nearly four hundred employees to cover seventy-two counties, and
managed everything from mining to timber to hunting to farming to land
development regulations.  "Damn Near Russia" was a favorite euphemism among
many cheeseheads.

Tony Merle had worked his way up the bureaucratic ranks to become the
department's secretary and prided himself for his environmental
stewardship.  He'd been a loyal lieutenant to former governor and
U.S. Senator Gaylord Nelson, the father of Earth Day, and he was an easy
choice for Ted Hackett to head the department.  Even at the age of
fifty-five, he was still stuck in the Sixties mentally, and wore his
graying hair in a ponytail.  Although that brought snide remarks from some
in the Capitol and the media, he didn't give a damn.  He was secure in his
position and confident in what he was doing.  And he was pissed at Jeremy
Frick as he sat in Maureen's outer office waiting to speak to the Majority
Leader.

"With all due respect, Senator, what the hell is this all about?"  He held
up a copy of Frick's environmental bill for southwest Wisconsin.

Maureen squinted, pretending to read the number and title of the bill, even
though she knew why he was there.  "That's proposed legislation from
Senator Frick and others to encourage economic development in seven
southwest counties."

Merle set the bill on the chair next to him.  "Never...never has a proposed
change in land use laws come up for a vote without first clearing the DNR.
It's absurd.  It castrates the department in that region and endangers
wildlife, ground water, rivers and streams.  And that's just for starters."

Maureen put down her coffee mug and crossed her legs.  "With all due
respect, Mr. Secretary, it sounds to me like a turf battle.  It sounds like
you're in a huff because you weren't consulted first.  Your job, as I read
the state's constitution, is to carry out the legislature's directions at
the discretion of the governor, not to write those laws."

"But it's an abomination of a bill!"

"In your opinion, to which you are entitled.  And it has the support of the
majority caucus, as far as I can tell.  It will get a hearing before
committee, and you'll be invited to testify."

"And I'll be there with bells on, bellowing two main themes as far as I can
see. First, that the legislature is drafting radical bills without the
benefit of expert input.  Secondly, I'll be loudly yelling about the
potential impact this bill could have on our many natural resources in the
region.


Carolyn Comstock, "CC," was just about the most disproportionately fat
woman Scott had ever met.  At about five foot four, she had to go 225,
maybe 250.  When she stopped walking it took a few seconds for her ass to
quit wiggling.  Well, more like quaking or shifting, not so much wiggling.
She breathed heavily under her weight in the simplest activities or
conversations.  Scott guessed that she hadn't seen her feet in a couple of
decades, as her gut far exceeded even her enormous knockers.  A Humpty
Dumpty with tits.  The flab under her arms jiggled with just about every
move she made.  But damn, was she ever a sweetheart.  She reminded him of a
short, white and heavier version of Daisy, his dad's executive assistant
back home.  Daisy was a mountain of a woman herself and a force of nature,
and he kept reminding himself he needed to call her one of these days.
Carolyn had curly brown hair, a joyous flabby face with enormous glasses
framing the upper third of it and the happiest disposition of practically
anybody he'd ever met.  She giggled easily and was a hands-on demonstrative
woman who was loved by everybody under the dome.

She worked in the Chief Clerk's office, keeping track of most of the hard
copy records that were archived going back to the days before computerized
record keeping.  He'd isolated six key environmental bills that had come up
since 1980.  Happily, of the 33 members, 12 had been elected after the
voting records were recorded and accessible electronically from his desk.
That meant that their relevant votes were immediately available.  That also
left 21 members to look at, but it whittled the number of bills from six to
four during the time in question.  Scott was confident that he could have
guessed all their voting records, but Frick was demanding facts.  He was
going to deliver.

Scott leaned on the counter.  "Good morning CC and how are you this fine
day?"

She turned from the filing cabinet and beamed.  "Oh goodness!"  She waddled
over to the counter and put her wide hands on top of his.  "Scott!  You've
been such a stranger!"

`She's got more chins than a Chinese phone book,' he thought, and then
scolded himself for being so crass and politically incorrect.  She was a
genuinely lovely lady.  "Well, I don't want to bug you if it's not
necessary.  This time, though, I really need your help."

She patted his right hand.  "Anything for you, honey.  You know it's no
bother.  I love my job.  Now tell CC what you need."

He handed her a copy of a spreadsheet he'd started on.  "I need the voting
records of these 21 senators on these four bills.  Working on some issue
and voting analysis for Senator Frick."

Carolyn rolled her eyes.  "Well, well!  We can't keep the honorable
gentleman waiting now, can we?"

She scanned the list.  "There'll be procedural votes and votes on
amendments to every one of these bills you know.  You want them, too?"

He shook his head.  "Nope.  Don't go that far.  Just up or down votes on
the final version at passage.  That's all."

She smiled.  "Thanks honey.  This'll be a breeze.  I'll have it for you by
tomorrow, probably the afternoon.  Why don't you e-mail me a copy of this
spreadsheet?  I'll just enter the `ayes' and `nays' and send it back to
you.  You should see it the next morning when you get in.  If not, then
c'mon over and give old CC a little hell."

This time he patted her hand.  "I could never do that, and you know it"

"Well, stop by now and then, if only to say hi."  She leaned over the
counter and whispered.  "I love to see you, but the younger gals in here
just swoon whenever you stop by."

Scott blushed.  "Nice to know.  I'll do what I can.  Thanks a lot,
sweetheart.  Gotta run."  He squeezed her hand again and headed for the
door.

"Always a pleasure, Scott.  Have a good one."

He waved over his shoulder.  "You too, Carolyn."



A little before eleven, Scott's phone rang.  The screen told him it was
Clara, Maxson's secretary.

Scott grabbed the receiver.  "What's up gorgeous?"

Clara giggled.  "Okay smooth talker.  Put a lid on it."

"Having a good day today?"

"No.  That's why I called.  I missed the outgoing mail this morning.  I
have a package that needs to be overnighted to Milwaukee, and a few other
things, but am going to a dental appointment over my lunch today."

"Ouch.  And you need me to be your mule."

"Well, I'm told you can be something of a jackass now and then."  She
giggled as Scott grinned.  "But, yeah, I need you to run to the post
office. I'm bugging out early, but will leave the stack of crap on the
corner of my desk.  The one on top to the Milwaukee County Party needs
overnight delivery. The rest is just regular first class.  I'll tape a few
twenties in an envelope out of petty cash for the overnight.  Just bring
back the change and the receipt."

"Your wish is my command."

"Good thinking.  I'll see your tomorrow then."

A half hour later, Scott logged off his computer, checked the contents of
his book bag, pilfered a pad of post it notes from his desk and moseyed
toward Clara's office.  The post office was only a half block away, but if
he was going to stand in line then he was heading out early.  He'd stick
his head into Will's office to let him know.  Just as she'd said, Clara was
absent, but there was a short stack of mail with an envelope taped the
overnight package.  It had two twenties in it.  Will's office door was
open, but it was Frick's voice he heard.

"Will, it doesn't matter if the donations are coming from the God damned
moon!"

"Fair enough senator, I was simply curious.  It doesn't make sense.  The
fall election cycle has run its course, and here we have all this money
coming in from Iowa and Illinois."

"The folks on our borders have legitimate interests in the activity of the
Wisconsin legislature.  They're free to donate, within our limits, to
whomever they want."

"I realize that, senator, but..."

Frick interrupted.  "Look, Will, you're inside a year of retirement.
You've had one heart attack already.  No sense in worrying about something
that's not worth worrying about.  My advice is to just keep doing the good
job you always do and we'll throw a hell of a party for you when the time
comes."

The tone of voice suggested to Scott, `Now shut the hell up and mind your
own fucking business!"  Scott just picked up the mail and quietly left the
office.

Frick strode back into his two-room suite down the hall and found Martine
waiting in the outer office.  Martine stood up.  "Hello, Senator Frick."
The two shook hands.  "It's good to see you again."

Frick smiled.  "Same here."  He nodded toward his office door.  "Come on
in."

Frank settled into a chair in front of Frick's desk while the senator hung
his suit coat on a hanger and he rolled up his sleeves.  "You're doing good
work, Frank.  Very good work.  But I'd like you to think about bumping it
up a notch."

Martine looked quizzical.  "How so?"

"Well I do have a thought or two.  I'd like you to think about setting up
an issue/interest group.  It's basically a political action committee of
like-minded citizens interested in affecting the outcomes of elections."

"Isn't that what we're doing now?"

"Well, yes and no.  The thing about sending donations to a specific
committee is you're restricted by our campaign limits.  I'm talking about
independent expenditures."

Frank's face gave lie to his lack of understanding.

"You see, if you raise and spend money on advertising or mailings rather
than donating directly to someone's campaign, then you're not making a
campaign donation.  Rather, you're merely exercising your right to free
speech."  Frick grinned.  "God bless the First Amendment.  If the ad
focuses on an issue and doesn't necessarily advocate the election of any
one individual, then it's an issue or interest ad, not a campaign
contribution.  You're free to tout your position on an issue and point out
how the opponent is all screwed up on the question without coming right out
and say `vote for our guy or gal.'  Let's say this environmental bill is
coming up for a vote, and this lawmaker or that one is against it.  All you
do is buy ads in the local paper or on TV or radio, depending on the
market, or you pay for a mass mailing that says, `We believe that every
American should retain the God-given right to use their own property as
they see fit.  We don't need some bureaucrat in Madison telling us when we
can plant a tree, start a farm or remodel a factory.  Unfortunately
Representative Joe Schmoe doesn't agree.  Call Joe Schmoe and tell him to
get behind this movement to reclaim our rights to our own land."

The light went on in Martine's head.  It showed on his face.  Frick grinned
again.  "When it works, Mr. Schmoe either starts thinking right, or he
loses the next election.  And, Mr. Martine, we have more than a few Joe
Schmoes around here.  Trust me on that one.  If you form the committee and
can raise the cash, we can select the districts and write the ads
appropriate to the issue and the area of the state.  Then you folks buy the
air time or the print ads or the mass mailings."

"Well, don't the folks know where the money is coming from?"

"Sure.  You have to have an `authorized and paid for' disclaimer, even on
issue ads.  But give the group an innocuous or patriotic sounding name and
nobody really pays attention."

"I'll bet some of these `issue ads' could get pretty nasty.  Don't the good
guys take some heat for them?"

"That's the beauty.  The `good guys' running to win or keep their office
can say with a straight face, `That's not my ad.  Look at the disclaimer.
I don't even know who that is and I certainly can't do anything to
interfere with their free exercise of interested speech.  It's their right
and I don't control them.'"

Frick pinched his bottom lip and nodded slowly.


As he stood in line at the post office, Scott felt the phone in his coat
pocket vibrate.  He checked the screen.  Greg.  He rolled his eyes and put
it back in his pocket, ignoring the call.



Scott was half way home after his last class of the day when his phone
buzzed again inside his book bag.  He figured it was Greg again, and didn't
like talking on the phone when he drove, so he let it go.  Once settled
back in at the apartment, he checked the phone.  "One Missed Call" he
checked the number.  It wasn't Greg's but it looked familiar.  He pressed
"Back" on the key panel.  "One Message Received."

He checked his voicemail.  "Hey, Turner, it's Sonja.  Been talking to some
folks and there's a pretty general agreement that we need to turn up the
heat on Lyman and his goons before the November meeting.  Not sure we're
going to have the votes by then, but his Neanderthal views can't go
unchallenged between now and then.  I'm gonna call a buddy over at the
campus radio station and get some available dates and times and will call
you back later.  Get ready to become a radio star, Mr. President."

"Aw, shit."


Author's Note: Comments or questions are always welcomed, and may be
e-mailed to scotty.13411@hotmail.com.  I love the feedback!