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RUBY62-6
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1996-10-27
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63 lines
Copyright (c) 1996
ASTERISK
by Michael Hahn
It was hard to believe it all came down to this. He watched
the returns on TV like the rest of America, watched as the long
campaign came to an end.
He learned from the men who'd held his office how difficult
a first term could be. He'd weathered his own, struggled with
reconciling his agenda for re-election and his agenda for the
country.
He wanted a second term more than he had wanted the office in
the first place. A second term gave him the chance to make a
difference, a chance to be more than just another man in a high
office.
Was it worth it? He'd been the subject of bitter personal
attacks even before he won his seat. The opposition assaulted him,
assaulted his wife; they used every nod and wink against him,
smearing his name and reputation, soiling the gains of his
administration with baseless charges and innuendo. He knew it
probably wouldn't end, even now that the campaign was over, but he
didn't care.
No more worries about opinion polls and bringing in the vote.
Other members of the party could worry about the next election;
he'd won this one, assured himself of the office. He had more
important things to do.
Too many before him had "stayed the course"; what gains he
felt he had made in his first term were just baby-steps compared
to what he planned for his second term. He was prepared; strategy
sessions for what would follow had already been held. He was
supposed to be a mover and shaker, and he intended to move and
shake. He had more than rhetoric at his disposal; he intended to
use the full powers of his office.
He stared into the mirror, straightened his tie. Time to go
accept his victory, take his first step on the road to history.
Tonight he could begin laying the groundwork for his vision of the
future. He had plans, grand plans, for the country. In two
centuries of leaders, only a handful were remembered with real
distinction. In his lifetime, only two or three stood above the
rest.
He could be one of them; he could make a real difference. He
took his wife's hand, walked down the corridor toward the ballroom.
"Now is my time," he thought. "Now I can change the nation."
An aide stepped to his side, whispered in his ear. His
opponent had conceded publicly, certain until the last that the
electorate would surprise the incumbent despite the polls that
spoke otherwise.
He strode to the podium, waved to the cheering crowd and the
cameras. He wore his characteristic smile, two parts good humor
and one part humility; he squeezed his wife's hand, took the index
cards from his pocket. He cleared his throat.
From the corner of his eye, as he waved to quiet the crowd,
he saw the man at the edge of the stage. He half-turned, felt the
impact as the bullet slammed into his temple. As his neurons fired
for the final time, as he died, his last thought was of the history
books. He'd be one of a handful, but not as he wished:
William Jefferson Clinton, 42nd President of the United
States*.
*Died in office.
-end-