How Will You Die, Senator Dunmore?

“The Office of the President is no job for a weakling,” said Senator Derek Fordham, eyes shining in the spotlight. “Centuries of American politics have shown us that. It’s a job that calls upon all of a man’s strength. It’s a job for men who know their limitations, men with perspective—with drive.”

        The audience was utterly silent, staring with goggle-eyed worship as Fordham reached into his inside pocket and produced a white slip of paper. He held it between his first and second fingers and waved it in time with his speech.

        “I always keep my death prediction close to my heart. At the age of fifty-seven, I will be knocked down by a car. That’s what it says. I don’t fear it. I’ll never run from it. When I see that car coming, I will stand with feet firm. That’s the kind of strong leadership this country needs.”

        Matthew Pander, the moderator of the debate, coughed meekly to signal his next question. “Senator Fordham, how old are you now?” He was a man who knew his allegiances and it was the most softball question he could have possibly asked.

        “Fifty-three,” came the reply instantly. “And yes, I understand perfectly that I have only four years at most and could only possibly serve the American people as president for that long. I see that as my greatest strength. Who wants to vote for some self-serving bureaucrat with one eye constantly on his retirement fund? I have only four years to make my country great and leave a legacy for which I will be fondly remembered.”

        A quiet, lovestruck sigh ran through the audience. And Fordham concentrated on keeping his face toward the camera at the optimal angle to show wisdom and dignity.

        “If I could just turn to you, now, Senator Dunmore,” said Pander, now facing Fordham’s opponent in the polls. “Do you have anything to say to that?”

        “Yes, I do,” said Dunmore, shifting in his seat. “While I am in total agreement with my learned opponent concerning the importance of strength and courage in a president, one should not play down the equal importance of optimism.” He paused for effect and reconstructed a steeple with his fingers. “I think it’s naïve to think a president would only be good if he knew he wasn’t going to last. Rather, it would lend a certain fatalistic approach to policy—a sense of not caring about long-term issues because you won’t be around to face them.”

        The crowd was unmoved. Someone in the audience coughed loudly, mingling it with the word ‘jackass.’

        “Senator Dunmore,” wheedled Pander, “how are you, yourself, fated to die?”

        Inwardly Dunmore rolled his eyes. “I have not received my prediction. I don’t believe in letting yourself get bogged down with that sort of thing.” 

        There was disapproving murmuring in the audience. “To be frank,” said Fordham. “I have enormous respect for my learned opponent and his achievements in the Senate, but his stance clearly shows he just hasn’t the stomach for the job of the president.”

        “Now look—”

        “Sorry, I’m going to have to stop you there,” said Pander, turning to address his teleprompter. “We’ve run out of time. Remember to tune in next week for our election special and we’ll see with whom the nation lies. Next tonight on CNN3: the new season of Motocross Cousins.”

“You have to admit, he’s won everyone over,” said Volger, staring out of Dunmore’s office window. Volger was his campaign manager and a man born, in Dunmore’s opinion, from a long line of evolutionary descendants of rats, lizards, and slimy fish. “Ten points ahead of us and rising.”

        “That debate was a sham,” said Dunmore, sitting at his desk with his head buried in his arms. “Not a single question on party policy, political experience, or past achievements. Everyone’s just fixated on his death.”

        “Well, it’s the crux of his campaign.” Volger plucked one of Fordham’s campaign leaflets from the dartboard. “‘Four courageous years,’” he read aloud. “I thought you did as well as could be expected. That bit where you talked down fatalism was shooting us in the foot, though. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but 90% of the country’s voters know how they’re going to die. Fatalism is very fashionable at the moment.”

        At that point, there was a cheerful knock on the door and a head and shoulders peered around it. They belonged to Carol, the work experience girl. “Just dropping off the newspapers,” she said brightly, tossing a pile of newsprint onto a nearby chair. “Anything I can get for you, gentlemen?”

        “No, nothing,” snapped Dunmore. “Just leave us alone.”

        “Righty-roo.” She left.

        “I don’t know why you have to be so hard on her all the time,” said Volger. “She only wants to learn from you.”

        “She’s seventeen.”

        “So what? The Speaker of the House is barely into high school. Everyone grows up so much faster these days, rushing to reach their ambitions. Nothing motivates people better than a glimpse of their own mortality.”

        “I’m sorry. I just get edgy around young girls.”

        Volger went over to the freshly delivered papers and flipped reproachfully through the headlines. “The media’s one hundred percent behind Fordham. ‘Dunmore Fears Truth,’ Jesus Christ.”

        He glanced over at the party leader, who had sunk into visible despair. For a moment, the unfamiliar feeling of pity sparked in Volger’s mind. He sidled over to the desk, perched upon it, and injected what he felt was a fatherly tone into his voice. “Look, Fred. You’re a good politician. Frankly, we should probably be a hell of a lot further behind than we are, but you’re keeping our heads just above water. And you could turn this race around in a second. All you have to do is go to the nearest death machine and find out—”

        “I’ve already had my prediction.”

        “You—what?”

        Dunmore looked up with a deep melancholy in his eyes. “For Christ’s sake, Volger, I had it done years ago like everyone else. I just don’t want people to know about it.”

        “Fred, that little slip of paper is the one thing that could still get you elected. What is your problem? How bad could it be?”

        Dunmore looked his campaign manager square in the eye and spoke each word in a quiet monotone as if each one could set off an earthquake. “I am going to die of exhaustion from having sex with a minor.”

        Close to a minute of silence passed between the two men. Volger’s face remained frozen throughout.

        “Oh,” he said finally. He glanced to the door, then back to Dunmore. “I see.”

        “When I was nine, my father was arrested for molesting a little girl who lived next door to us,” said Dunmore heavily. “He’d never done anything like that to me. We never suspected a thing, but he was caught red-handed. I hated him for that. And for years now I’ve known that I am destined to do the same thing.”

        “Well, the machine can play tricks,” said Volger, making a mental note to jump ship at the earliest opportunity. “Are you sure it wasn’t, like, a coal miner—”

        “Minor—with an O. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t talking about music either.” He sighed. “Volger, it makes me wonder if I deserve to be president. Knowing that I’m going to do that, I mean.”

        “Oh, come on. That’s just the depression talking. Look, presidents have done much worse. You’re not going to let one little future mistake destroy your whole career, are you?”

        “It doesn’t matter, does it? Fordham’s going to win.”

        It said something about the change of tone in the room that Volger made no effort to contradict him or make comforting noises. For the rest of the day, they spoke strictly of minor business details, scheduled meetings and appearances. Finally, when Dunmore could not stand the stuffiness of his office any longer, he made his excuses and left.

        He wandered the streets of Washington in a daze. Revealing his long-kept secret had brought on a strange new perspective. On a darkened street corner, Dunmore stopped dead as he realized that he no longer had any wish to be president. Perhaps it was simply despair or rationalizing the hopelessness of beating Fordham. But he couldn’t shake the hot bristling sense of shame that now ruled his world.

Two days later, Derek Fordham died.

        “Run that by me again,” said Dunmore at his desk.

        “He’s been killed,” said Volger, fighting to keep his morose expression. “Stone dead.”

        “How?”

        “Knocked down by a car, obviously.”

        “No, I mean how? He’s not fifty-seven yet!”

        Volger tossed the morning’s newspaper onto the desk. “Fordham never gave the exact wording of his prediction. Turns out the phrase was ‘knocked down by a car aged fifty-seven.’”

        Dunmore’s brow furrowed and a few seconds later, he placed his hand over his eyes. “The car.”

        “It was a photo-op at a classic car rally. Wanted to show he wasn’t afraid of cars, I guess.”

        “Who’s running in his place?”

        “That’s the beauty of it. It’s Old Fatty Winslow. Simon ‘you’ll never get me onto one of those machines’ Winslow. He’s about as popular with the working class as the Christmas tax increase and now the death notes aren’t a campaign issue anymore!” Volger had now abandoned all pretense of solemnity and was grinning like a man with a coat hanger stuck in his mouth. “You can still make it!”

        “Oh.”

        “Well, don’t sound too pleased.”

        “Volger, I—”

        There was a knock at the door and Carol appeared. She had temporarily taken over for Dunmore’s secretary. “Er, Senator Dunmore? Richard Merryn is waiting. He’s the owner of—”

        “—International Media. Yes, I know who Richard Merryn is. What’s he doing here?”

        “Jumping ship,” said Volger smugly. “Don’t keep him waiting any longer. Bring him in. I was expecting something like this.” Carol glanced to Dunmore for confirmation, who nodded.

Merryn was an imposing figure as could be expected from the man who ran every mainstream newspaper in the western hemisphere. His suit was at least twice as expensive as Dunmore’s and he knew it. He was also very stout, practically shaking the floorboards as he dropped himself into the chair in front of Dunmore’s desk.

        “I’d like to speak to you in private,” said Merryn, making a gesture toward Volger like swatting a fly. Volger bowed diplomatically and left the room. But Dunmore picked up on the increase of pressure on the door that meant he was still listening.

        “How can I help you, Mr. Merryn?”

        “Terrible shame about Fordham,” he said, tutting loudly three times. “Terrible, terrible shame.”

        “Yes, it was pretty terrible,” replied Dunmore, thinking that, if Volger was slime, then Merryn was the primordial soup from which all slime originated.

        “Shame about his party, too. Can’t possibly introduce a credible new candidate in the time they have left.”

        “And since your newspapers have been backing them from the start, it’s kind of embarrassing for you. I know where this is leading.”

        Merryn smiled thinly. “I wonder if you do. Of course my papers are going to back you. Even this close to the election our support will guarantee you the presidency. And in return—”

        “—you want to have my ear, to be able to call in favors,” said Dunmore in a bored tone. “Well, forget it. I don’t need your support and I won’t be controlled. Sorry.”

        “I wasn’t expecting you to go for it. You’re one of those boring, predictable, idealistic sorts.” He crossed his legs and leaned back, sighing luxuriously. “Off the record, you’re pretty relieved about Fordham, right? Gets you off the hook with the death note stuff. So you don’t want to know how you die—makes sense to me. I mean, I know how I’m going to die—yachting mishap—but I can understand your point of view. Just don’t want to admit that you’re afraid to know, right? Nothing wrong with that.”

        Dunmore just nodded. “Perhaps. Look, if there’s nothing else—”

        Merryn silenced him by reaching into his breast pocket and rapidly pulling out a slip of paper with very familiar dimensions. “Something not many people know about the death machines,” he said, wiggling the slip. “Everything they output they also record. And you’d be surprised what a few bribes in the right place can get you.”

        Dunmore remained expressionless.

        “See, I couldn’t think of any reason why you wouldn’t get your prediction, not while it was costing you the vote and all. So, out of curiosity, I had a look for myself. And suddenly it all fell into place,” said Merryn, rising. “My papers will start talking you up first thing tomorrow. You’ll become president and everyone will be happy. You just remember who your friends are and no embarrassing personal destinies will have to be revealed. I’ll see myself out.”

        Dunmore took a deep breath and stood up. “I don’t want to be president!”

        “Well, not everyone gets what they want, you know,” said Merryn without turning around. Then he was gone.

        Volger came back in and slithered up to the desk. “Do you really not want to be president, Fred?”

        “God, that’s all you care about, isn’t it? No, since you ask, I don’t particularly want to be president anymore. And I definitely don’t want to be a corporate puppet.”

        “Look, don’t you worry about Merryn,” said Volger. “We’ll dig something up on him. You just play nice doggie for as long as it takes before we can assert ourselves. He publishes, we publish—the old scandal cold war.”

        “I’m not happy with all this… backroom dealing.”

        “Well, you’ve always been an idealist, Fred, and no offense, but it’s always been your weakest feature.” Volger pretended to notice the documents in his hand for the first time. “Oh, CNN wants you in for an interview tonight, just in time for the election. They’re probably sensing the tide turning as well, so they should go easier on you than before. We should go over the issues that need addressing.”

        Volger was still going over the issues during the ride to the studio that evening, but Dunmore had learned to block him out. If he stepped down from the race, Merryn would publish and his political career would be ruined. On the other hand, if he became president, he turned the country over to corporate rule. And even if that could be avoided, was it fair to let a country be led by someone who didn’t want to? It would be like an unwanted child growing up without getting the love it needed.

        The only possibility that Dunmore liked was to continue running but to lose so Merryn couldn’t blame him. But that seemed the least realistic scenario of them all: the opposition was in complete turmoil and no one would ever go for a third party. Like it or not, Dunmore was ahead in the polls and it would take something drastic to change that.

        By the time he had dragged himself from his reverie, he was already baking under the spotlights and makeup. He fidgeted with his hands as theme music heralded the interview. Before he even knew what was happening, Pander was turning to him with questions in hand.

        “So, Senator Frederick Dunmore,” he said. “How would you say Fordham’s death has affected the possible outcome of the general election?”

        “Well, of course, the death of my learned colleague was an unequivocal tragedy and I was deeply saddened,” said Dunmore automatically. “I have great sympathy for his family and his fellow party members and can only hope they will be able to continue working hard for the values Derek held dear. But having said that, I believe that the cornerstone of a new government is stability—stability that I fear the opposition currently lacks. We’re living in a new age and it’s time for a new kind of government—open, accepting, and… honest.”

        Out of the corner of his eye, Dunmore could see Volger frantically waving his hands and mouthing ‘no.’

        “Yes, honest. And in the interests of this philosophy, and in honor of my late colleague Senator Fordham, I have decided to reveal the manner in which I will die. I am to die of exhaustion while having sex with a minor—an underage person. 

        “I apologize for not having been open about it sooner, but I think under the circumstances you could understand why I would wish to conceal it. What has also been concealed from the public eye is the fact that my father was imprisoned for a pedophilic act. Frankly, I’m glad to have gotten these things off my chest. And I can only hope the American people will see these trivialities for what they are and vote for what they know is right.”

        The audience didn’t applaud as he left the stage. And he wondered if he had overdone it.

Two days later, Frederick Dunmore became President of the United States.

        “Run that by me again,” he said.

        “You won,” said Volger, leaning on the desk with a tight smile. “Landslide.”

        “But I thought I killed myself up there.”

        “So did a lot of people, myself included. But the reactions of the general public have been impossible to predict since the death machines started messing with their heads and even more so since the 36th Amendment lowered the voting age to 14. You of all people should know that. And now you’re the youngest president in American history.”

        “But I told everyone about my death. I told them I was going to—”

        “Yes, Fred. And I’m telling you that no one seems to care. Probably because you, yourself, are still technically a minor.”

        “I turn 18 in a month,” said Dunmore sulkily.

        Volger consulted the papers in his hands. “You already had the teenage vote, of course. The adults, well, half of them didn’t trust you because you were clammed up on the death note thing and the other half didn’t think you were mature enough for the position. That interview pretty much made all of them about-face.”

        “Oh, Jesus…”

        Volger spoke paternally again. “They were impressed by the way you confronted your past. Seen the papers? They’re saying how that one event combined with the knowledge of your future is what sparked your unstoppable drive, what made you become a Senator at 14. It’s an inspiring story.”

        “No,” wailed Dunmore, clasping his hands to his face. “I wanted to fail. I don’t want to be president. I don’t deserve to run the country.”

        Volger bridled. “Maybe, but you were elected anyway,” he said, dropping his papers on the desk with a loud slap. “So maybe it’s the country that deserves you.”