- The election was over, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. But on Christmas Eve, as George slept snug in his bed, visions of empire and aggressive accounting procedures dancing in his head, at the stroke of one (midnight, central Crawford time) he awoke with a start.
By the fireplace of his chamber, there stood a specter, a woman clad in a scarlet military tunic with many hues across her mouth, cheeks and eyelids.
"Spirit," George said. "Before I sic the Secret Service on you, identify."
"I am the Ghost of Elections Past," she replied.
- And then, George found himself back in his bedroom, alone but for a third phantasm, the most frightening of all, gazing at him in silent reproach, gesturing with his good left hand.
"John McCain!" George exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Are you the Ghost of Elections Yet to Come?"
He answered not, but pulled aside the bedroom curtain. On the street below, thousands demonstrated, singing, chanting, barricading the entrances to government buildings, demanding new and fair elections.
"Dagnabit," cursed the ghost. "Wrong city. That's Kiev, Ukraine. But what the heck - you get the idea."
"No, spirit," George moaned. "This is a fearful scene. Make it stop!"
And so it did. Everything was as it was. George had no need to make amends.
He turned to Laura beside him. "Darlin'," said he. "I had the most horrible dream."
She turned, eyes gleaming, lips in a curious smile. "No nightmare, George," she murmured. "Let Us Count the Votes, Every One!"
George called the Secret Service.
Copyright 2004 Messenger Post Newspapers
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