Lies & the Lying Liars Who Tell Them_ A Fair & Balanced Look at the Right - Al Franken [60]
Florida. November. A forty-three-year-old woman named Katherine Harris paced back and forth on a colorless carpet in an office that smelled of sweaty seersucker and day-old perfume. Nearby, a trim, goateed man was fanning himself lazily with a Panama hat while lying on the couch. “I swear, Katherine, I’m sweating like a nigger on Election Day. Can’t we crank up the AC in here?”
“Just tell me what to do, Mac. Just tell me what to do.”
“I told you what to do, baby. I told you to turn up the AC. The important thing is that you don’t lose your cool.”
“Mac, you don’t understand,” Harris said, worrying a blood-red fingernail. “When I was elected secretary of state, I never suspected I’d actually have to do anything.”
Stipanovich chuckled, then lifted a haunch and let out a long, rattling fart. “You have to bring this election in for a landing.”2
“I’m not cut out for this, Mac. I’ve never stolen an election before,” Harris said, her voice quavering on the edge of hysteria.
Stipanovich stood up sharply, took three long strides across the office, and slapped the trembling woman across the face. Hard. “I’m only going to say this once, Kathy. I’m not leaving this office until the Texan’s in the White House. I’m here to take care of you, Kathy. In any way I can.”
A wave of calm, mingled with desire, washed over Florida’s highest-ranking election official. It was a good to have a man around. A real man. Not one of those country club milksops, but a living, breathing, farting man. Everyone who mattered in Florida knew Mac Stipanovich. For corporate interests in the Sunshine State, Stipanovich was the man to see for the project that absolutely had to be approved, the bill that simply had to pass.3 Stipanovich knew where the bodies were buried. Hell, he had buried more than a few of them himself.
“Hold me, Mac, I’m scared.”
“I’ll do more than hold you, baby,” he said, crushing his mouth to her lips.
Harris recoiled at the acrid taste of cigars and rye. “You stink, Mac.”
“I know, baby. And I know you love it.”
“I can’t do this, Mac. I don’t have the power to deny the Gore request for recounts. It’s not up to me. It’s up to each county’s three-member canvassing board, each of which is comprised of the local election supervisor, a county judge, and an elected county commissioner.”4
Stipanovich pulled her close with his left hand and raised his right hand menacingly. “Listen to me good, sweetcheeks. Here’s how we’re gonna play it. You prohibit the manual recounts by issuing opinion letters. As the chief elections officer for the state, you offer binding interpretations of Florida election law.”5
Harris sighed. “You’re going to have to be strong, Mac, for both of us.”
“I will. I am.” Stipanovich smiled. He was thinking of that phone call that had pulled him away from a nice warm bar stool and an even warmer redhead. His old friends in the Bush campaign needed someone to baby-sit the secretary of state. That the secretary of state was one beautiful baby was icing on the cake. Stipanovich turned, walked to the desk, and refilled his tumbler from the half-empty bottle of cheap hooch. He turned back and whistled softly. Those calls to the county canvassing boards would have to wait. Mac Stipanovich had work to do.
Harris was now wearing only brief white panties. She had signaled her desire by removing her shirt and skirt, and by leaning back on the couch. She closed her eyes, concentrating on nothing but Stipanovich’s tongue and lips. He gently teased her by licking the areas around her most sensitive erogenous zone. Then he slipped her panties down her legs and, within seconds, his tongue was inside her, moving rapidly.6
That’s how it happened. The true story of the stealing of the presidency. Oh, there was more to it than just a sweaty