The soldier, winded and hunched, ran the last few yards before leaping into the Foxhole that had been dug behind the carcass of Big Bird. “Sergeant Jones, I’ve got bad news,” he said. “I think we’ve lost Nesser.”
“Dammit! What happened, Private Ujay?”
“He was trying to weave through that field of empty chairs when he was knocked down by a fusillade of negative TV ads. He wasn’t wearing his ear plugs or a gas mask, and he started retching after hearing about the President’s economic record. The last I saw of him, he was being dragged away by a team of pollsters to participate in a focus group.”
“What the hell! I’ve told everyone that they need to keep the masks on, because the noise and poisonous messages are more than any man can bear.”
“He said he wanted to breathe free and watch the Buckeyes game on TV, sir.”
“Well, there’s no saving the poor bastard now,” Sergeant Jones said. She peered over Big Bird’s soiled yellow feathers, scanning the terrain. “Get down!” she barked, as a fusillade of binders full of women rained down.
“I’ve got more bad news, sir,” Ujay reported. “Some of the members of the platoon are saying there’s nothing to worry about and no need to get ready for the next attack.”
“Blast! Didn’t they watch that first presidential debate and see what happens when you start to take things for granted?”
Another soldier appeared and saluted. “Message from Captain Duhamel, sir. He says the Bain Capital Brigade is approaching from the east. He thinks they’re hoping to outsource us all to China.”
“Thanks for the warning, Private Jeff — but we all know that those briefcase-carrying Bain bastards are ruthless. They’ll stop at nothing once they’ve decided to downsize.” The sergeant paused for a moment. “Well, we know that we don’t have enough horses and bayonets to make a stand here. Time to move out.”
“But Sarge — if we move we’ll lose the cover we’ve got here in this Foxhole.”
“You didn’t build that, Mack! Now move!”
The bedraggled platoon scrambled out of the Foxhole, past the hulk of Big Bird. Nearby, hordes of “ground game” campaign workers were dragging reluctant Ohioans to the polls for a final day of early voting. A black motorcade barreled past, hurling campaign literature about a five-point plan at passersby trying to dodge the Obama volunteers talking about how a 7.9 percent unemployment rate means the economy is on the road to recovery. A crowd of “campaign surrogates” traded punches on a street corner, and a phalanx of Jeeps carrying members of the 47 Percent Regiment were advancing from the west. Overhead, the voices of pundits filled the air, raining invective and talking points on the few remaining civilians not under cover. And Bill Clinton and David Axelrod were spinning like tops, knocking people down as Joe Biden’s Cheshire Cat grin blinded the soldiers and his maniacal laugh echoed off the downtown office buildings.
“My God! It’s carnage,” Private Ujay shouted, as he ran after Sergeant Jones. “We’ll never survive this, never!”
“Yes we will,” Sergeant Jones bellowed. “We’ve done it before, and we’ll do it again. It’s what you get when you live in Battleground Ohio.”