Fiction Challenge #2:
Untitled
by Glitch Girl

"This is not good..." muttered the lawyer/assassin and political campaign manager Zapow from his desk that sat awash in papers and other assorted "bureaucratic" devices.

"Oh sure it is," a metallic voice from the sofa said in response. "Even better than 100 proof."

"I'm not talking about... what is that?"

"Nitroglycerin. Want some?" said Dr. Man-Bot. "It's really good with a Vodka chaser."

"You're drinking nitro?"

"Yup."

"Glycerin?"

"Yup. You sure you don't want some? It's really quite good, has a bit of a sweet aftertaste to it."

Zapow massaged his forehead. It must be an energy-X thing he thought.

"Not right now," the tired campaign manager said. "We've got a crisis on our hands."

"A crisis? DC's not doing another reboot again, are they?"

"NO! It's you! You're down in the polls. WAY down."

"Exactly how far down?" asked the metal man cautiously.

"You're one point ahead of Jar-Jar and twelve behind a ham sandwich."

"I thought we took care of the ham sandwich?"

"I'm talking about ANY ham sandwich!"

"Oh... that's bad then?"

"YES!" Dr Man-bot seemed slower on the uptake than usual. Of course, it may have had something to do with the fact that it was only 11:30 am, and the doctor was not known for getting out of bed before noon without the use of heavy machinery.

"I wonder why?" the armored presidential candidate mused.

"Well," said Zapow, gathering up a mass of papers and shifting them into a semblance of order, "The public seems to think of you as a, quote 'Uneducated, crass, drunken, tub of lard with a homicidal maniac for a running mate,' unquote."

"Homicidal..? He's been good this year so far... wait. This has to do with the Sea World incident, doesn't it?"

"People actually LIKE Flipper, sir. And I don't mean served with soy sauce."

"Honestly, I thought he got the Mahi-mahi from a vendor!"

"Yes, I sure you did," said Zapow in the patronizing way only lawyers can get away with. "I'll have a word with him later, preferably from a safe distance. We still have to address the 'uneducated, crass, drunken, tub of lard' part."

"And how would we do that?"

"Well... for one thing, it's probably a bad idea to refer to the Pope as 'a guy into weird ****', and the former Mother Theresa as 'Raisin-face'."

"Oh."

"And you might want to exercise more. Join a gym. Do aerobics, learn some Ken Po-"

"What's that?"

"Um... I'm not sure. A martial art of some kind, I think."

"Does Chuck Norris do it?"

"I don't know."

"I like Chuck. Can I get him as a personal trainer?"

"Um.. whatever, anyway, we need to get you into some kind of fitness routine so that the voters see you don't sit on your butt all day drinking beer and looking at Korean porn."

"But I do sit on my butt all day and-"

"Right, but we don't want THEM to know that!"

"Oh. Gotcha."

"And you might want to cut back on the drinking too, so that-"

" WHAT DID YOU SAY?!?!?!?!"

"A little! Just a little!" Zapow said quickly as the metal man's chest began to glow with energy. "We don't want people confusing you with Ted Kennedy is all, okay?"

Much to Zapow's horror, the chestplate continued to build up energy, glowing brighter and brighter until...

"BBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPP!!!!!"

Zapow leaped aside as the fiery belch turned the desk and most of his paperwork into ash.

"'scuse me," muttered his client.

Zapow picked himself off the floor, looked at the pile of cinders, and started to ponder to himself how to turn the damage into some kind of a tax writeoff.