I Was The Governor--Chapter One

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Back by my popular demand!

Submitted: January 15, 2019

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Submitted: January 15, 2019



Sorry about the length, but I was to lazy to break up the chapter--thought this was relevant to this Trump nightmare:



“I Was The Governor”

(Citizen Knekk: From The Glitter To The Shitter)

By Mike Stevens

Chapter One:


Earle Edgar Davis, also known to those around him (not close, mind you, but around him, at any rate) by his childhood nickname Red, staggered his way across his darkened bedroom, and opened a can of malt liquor. He managed to raise it to his mouth. It was warm, but because it tasted like old fermented fuzz, it didn’t matter. He swallowed twice before it spilled from his retching mouth and splattered to the floor. He choked and gagged, then turned and tried to set the beer down again. The can dropped to the floor because he had missed the table, and beer foamed out of it. He had a blinding headache from drinking at The Blind Funnel Tavern with his acquaintances until the wee hours that morning. The Funnel was the place where they hung out most every nights after their shift at the hunting rifle assembly plant was over. He had known them since before he had dropped out of school in the 10th grade. He knew that he needed a little hair of the dog to clear his head enough to make it into work. Work! What time was it? He must be late! He walked over and groped on his bedside table for the alarm clock; the alarm clock that was supposed to awaken him at 6:00 am. He’d had a little trouble with it after he got home earlier, and dropped it. His eyes seemed to be crossed, and he was having trouble making then focus. At last his searching hand found it, and he pulled it to where he could see the time. His blurry vision slowly came into focus. It was 9:15; he was late! He went to replace the clock on his nightstand and dropped it again. He managed to pick it up and glanced again at the time. Wait just a minute, now the clock said it was 3:45! What? Then he looked at the writing on the clock face. It was right side up. His alcohol-addled brain struggled to make sense of the information, when all at once the truth hit him; the clock had been upside down when he had first read it and it was now 3.45 pm! He had slept clear through most of the day.


He stumbled to his bedroom door, and somehow managed to get dressed, went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and the crap out of his hair, and gazed at the tortured image staring back at him from his full-length mirror. He looked like some sort of Creature from the Black Lagoon. His short reddish-brown hair, despite his attempts to fix it, was sticking straight up in spots, his balding head shone through the tufts of sparse, unruly hair, and the dried food stains that covered his shirt seemed to have a life of their own. He did not make a pretty sight! Then he ran, at least ran as fast as his pounding headache would allow him, and reeled across the street to The Firearm Factory, where he worked. He had purposely rented a one-bedroom house right across the street from both the factory and The Blind Funnel, so as there to be no need of his driving anywhere after getting off work and hitting the tavern. As he spent almost all of his time working or drinking, there was little need for driving. As he slammed open the front door to The Firearm Factory, he heard a voice yell,

“Well, so good of you to join us, Mr. Davis!” It was the angry voice of his boss, Edward Sheets.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sheets, I don’t know what happened. My alarm failed to wake me.”

“Well, we tried to call you, but the phone just kept ringing and ringing. It really doesn’t matter why you didn’t answer. Save your pathetic excuses, whatever happened, happened, and we can’t have it. With all of your other problems, we probably should have done this a long time ago, you’re fired!”

“Shit!” he exclaimed, “Please, Mr. Sheets, it won't happen again.”

“You bet you’re ass it won’t happen again, because you’re no longer employed here.”


Earle Edgar looked around his tiny house and felt nothing but cold despair. As he slumped down into the taped-up bean bag chair that served as his only furniture, he thought about his next step. He had been fired from The Firearm Factory, and needed new employment or he wouldn’t be able to pay the rent on this place, and would lose it, too. He had stolen the afternoon newspaper from outside his neighbor’s door, because he himself had little reason to waste his money on them, and opened it to the help wanted section. As he searched through it, he swilled the last of his malt liquor. He had reheated the last of his chicken noodle soup and finished it. Now he had no job, soon he might have no place to live, and was out of food and beer. He could feel the vice of poverty closing on him.

There just had to be something in here. He scanned over the ads with mounting despair. They all wanted at least a high school education, or experience. He had worked at The Firearm Factory since he had dropped out, and no other gun manufacturer was hiring. What was he going to do? To help him pass the time, and to distract himself from the dissolution of the fruitless search through the help wanted ads, he flipped on the television. Some inane sitcom was running. He was paying little attention, when he heard an advertisement, “My friends, if you elect me sheriff, I promise you I’ll clean up the streets of this town.”

“Yeah, with a broom maybe!” he muttered to himself. Look at this clown! If somebody that looks that stupid can call himself a politician, then I’m one too!’ What a joke, politics!


The laughter filled The Blind Funnel Tavern, located in the beautiful heart of downtown Jimmyville, Alabama. Red Davis was holding court. “So I thought to myself, ‘If a clown that stupid can run for higher office, then, damn it, so can I.’ Can you guys imagine?” His acquaintances dissolved into red-faced laughter. Earle Edgar laughed too at first, but then he thought of all the money to be made from bribes, and a whole range of devious political activities, and the laughter slowly faded from his face. He desperately needed another job, why not go for it? All he would have to do was make it look like he was working, while on the side he’d be taking bribe money hand-over-fist. He knew he would have no legitimate chance of winning, so the first thing he would have to do is find someone who knew how to rig the election.


At first, when he had announced he was running, his acquaintances all thought he

was joking “Yeah, right, it’s kind of not funny anymore!” said Herman Plopp.

“No, you guys, I’m serious, think about it. What better way to make us some big time money? I’d be the Governor, and you guys will be my staff. Together, we can rake it in.”

They looked at each other, and Larry Dicer said, “Sure, on the surface it sounds good, but Earle Edgar, you need a lot of supporters, and aside from us, you don’t have any. You’ll lose badly.”

“I know that, that’s why I’m going to cheat, I’m going to get someone who knows how the voting machines work, and fix them so they’ll vote for only me, and I'll win.”


Today, he was meeting with Merle Slaw, a computer expert he’d been put in touch with by his acquaintances, a technician who, along with his associates, was going to break into the place where all the voting machines were kept and rig them so that, no matter who the voter had voted for, their vote would be cast for Earle Edgar. Election day was still weeks away, but Earle Edgar had been assured that once he registered, and was on the ballot, all the machines would be rigged to cast a vote for him. Just then, a tall, painfully-thin man, swathed in what looked to Earle Edgar to be clothes that a man living under a bridge might wear, came through the door of the coffee house where they had agreed to meet. “Hello, you must be Merle Slaw. Pleased to meet you.”

“Yeah, whatever there, man. Do you have my payment?” Whoa, a real friendly fellow, “Yeah, I got your payment right here,” and he handed the guy a briefcase full of money; counterfeit money, that his acquaintance had printed for him. Yes, it was good to have a network of people with less to no morals surrounding him. “There you go, three million dollars, just like we agreed.”

“Okay man, I will rig all the machines by voting day in the primary, and the general election."


Earle Edgar had used some of the rest of his counterfeit money to register with the State of Alabama to run for Governor, and now he was hitting the campaign trail. He needed some more of it to buy several pitchers of beer at The Blind Funnel for all his acquaintances who would make up his campaign staff, because before they left by train to crisscross the state, they were all gathered at The Funnel for a farewell party.


“My friends, today we leave for what we all hope is a successful campaign to get me elected Governor!” He paused while he took a few gulps of his beer, which he had poured himself from one of the many pitchers on each table. “I just want to tell everyone I couldn’t have mounted this campaign without—holy shit, tackle that bastard!” He was yelling at the big screen television in the corner of the tavern, which was showing the football game. “Ah, touchdown. Well, this game is over. Damn, lost a fortune,” although it was counterfeit money, “Now where was I? Oh yeah, I couldn’t have mounted this campaign without your help, so thank you! Now, drink up, because tomorrow we all are going to have too be sober as a judge to meet and greet the people. And, remember, we need to make it look good, otherwise the authorities will become suspicious, and look into this election, and we can’t have that. So enjoy tonight and be ready to be all smiles tomorrow.”


The big debate between candidates for Governor was about to start, and Earl Edgar was NOT in a good mood. So far, his cheating had got him though a primary victory, but would it go undetected now in the general election? He hated even being here, but he supposed he had to make the election seem above board. His opponent was Jerry Dahlberg, his Democratic Party opponent. The debate was being televised live throughout the state, and Earle Edgar hoped to do well, but, with his cheating, it really didn’t hold his interest. Just then, the moderator, Clark Calhoun from WREK radio in Mobile, began, “Good evening, and welcome to tonight’s first debate between democratic candidate for Governor, Jerry Dahlberg, and his republican opponent, Earle Edgar Davis. Let me begin by asking Mr. Dahlberg, lately, budget restrains have caused cutbacks of critical programs, such as Feed the Poor and others, what do you propose to help ease those shortfalls?”

“Thank you Clark, and first of all, I’d like to welcome viewers...” Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah! I’m going to propose the poor eat the dirt I’m going to have dug up to build the new casino where the food bank is now located, thought a no longer listening Earle Edgar.

“...and that’s my plan to tackle the states budget shortfall.”

“Mr. Davis, same question.”

“Ah, I’d just like to say, everything is going to be fine, trust me!”

Clark Calhoun waited for specifics, but incredibly, Earle Edgar appeared to be done. “Can you expand, please?”


“I asked if you could expand please?”

“What, like a fricking balloon? I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”


And it was all downhill from there, with each answer he gave more moronic than the last. Calhoun thought, there is absolutely no chance in hell this idiot will EVER be elected Governor, in fact, how he ever made it through the primary is a wonder!


They were abound the special train, which had been paid for out of Earle Edgar’s supply of fake money, and were pulling into the first stop of many stops, where Candidate Davis would be making a short speech before leaving for the next town. The thought of the many speeches he would be making to people who wouldn’t be voting for him anyway depressed him, but he had to at least make it look like he was following the usual pattern for a candidate, he wished he could just sit at The Funnel and drink until election day, but…


The train rolled to a stop on a sidetrack, and the crowd of people, who had been lured there by 'Free Beer!' signs posted at every tavern in the area, and who had rounded up all their friends, swarmed around the caboose where Candidate Davis would give his speech. They expected free beer, and when Earle Edgar emerged and began his speech, “Friends, I’m Candidate Earl Edgar Davis, and I’m running for Govern---”

“Shut up clown! Where’s our free beer?” a voice shouted.

“Who said that? No one spoke up, and Earle Edgar, visibly upset, had to be restrained by members of his staff from leaping over the railing, and attempting to find the person responsible for the insult.

“No, Earle Edgar, you can’t be acting like that. You need to be seen as a level-headed guy,” whispered Herman Plopp.

Earle Edgar answered softly, “Yeah, I’m calmed down now,” and he continued in a louder voice, “I’m Candidate Earle Edgar Davis, and I need your vote come election day.”

The same voice who had called him a clown yelled, “Who gives a shit? Beer!"

This time Earle Edgar had seen the man yelling, and before anyone could stop him, vaulted off the caboose’s platform, and grabbed the heckler by the throat, screaming, “All right, you heckling bastard, I’ve had about enough of your lipping off!” and he pounded the hapless guy over and over in the face, screaming, “Ya’ still think its funny, ya’ piss-poor excuse for a man?”

The rest of the audience quickly left, fearing they’d be the next target of this crazy bastard’s rage. Earle Edgar saw them leaving and dropped the bloody, bruised head of the now-unconscious heckler on the pavement, where it struck with a sickening sound “What, where’s everyone going?” The fleeing crowd didn’t even turn around.

“Fine, be that way, see if I care, but when I’m elected Governor, and make no mistake about it, I will be, I’m coming back to your pathetic little town, and I’ll make all your lives a living hell!” Then he stormed back aboard the train and screamed, “Come on, what’s the holdup? Get this damn train fricking moving, huh?”

he train rolled away from their first stop towards the next, Herman Plopp, who had become his manager by default, said, “That didn’t go very well, Red, you need to control your anger if you’re to be Governor.”

Earle Edgar responded angrily, “Well, was I supposed to just take the guy’s shit?”

“Yes, it doesn’t look good for a candidate for Governor to beat the hell out of an ordinary citizen.”“Well, do they want their Governor to be a pansy? But I suppose you’re right, it’s just that the bastard pissed me off.”


As the train pulled into the next town up the line, Candidate Davis looked out the window and said, “Look at this reject town! Herbert, what's the name of this loser town again?”Herbert Plopp replied, “Ah, I think this is Carpville.”

“Shit, it sure looks like a town for morons!”

“Sir, be nice and don’t let it show that you don’t think much of their town. Remember, we need to make them feel like you really care about them.”

“That I really care about them, sure.” He began to talk to the crowd, who’d once again been lured here by the promise of free beer “Friends, I’m Earle Edgar Davis, and I’m a candidate for Governor of Alabama. If you see fit to cast your vote for me, I’ll make sure you’ll get three hundred dollars!” There was a whispered oath from Herbert Plopp, who frantically waved him over to where he was standing on the rear platform of the caboose.

“Ah, just a moment, ladies and gentlemen, my campaign manager is waving at me like a bitch. I need to talk with him before I keep talking to you. Please excuse me for a minute.” Earle Edgar angrily stormed away from the microphone, and shot daggers at Herbert Plopp. “Okay, Herbert, this damn well better be important!”“You can’t be promising them three hundred dollars to vote for you.”

“Fine!” He stomped back to the microphone and said, “Well, I’ve just been informed that offering you three hundred bucks is illegal, so here’s what I’ll do. I’ll lower the amount to two hundred bucks per family. How’s that?” Again, Herbert Plopp waved for him to come over. Ah, hell! Once again he excused himself to the crowd, and stomped his way over to Plop. “Now what?”

“Ah, any amount of money is considered a bribe.”

Angrily, Earle Edgar stormed back to the microphone. “I’ve just been told that I can’t offer you people any amount of money, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. If you’ll vote for me, I promise you all a chicken in every pot!” There, he had promised them all something without being specific, and in such unique language. Something always popped into his head when he needed to say it in a unique fashion. Then he noticed Plop frantically gesturing to him. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, what?”

“Ah, sir, that was somebody’s campaign slogan years ago,” Herbert Plopp whispered.

“Bullshit, I just came up with it.”

“Sir, the crowd can hear you. You forgot to turn off the microphone.”

“What? Well for Christ’s sake, will somebody please turn this bitch off so these morons can’t hear me.


Earle Edgar had decided to cut the whistle-stop tour short. He was tired of kissing the backsides of idiot voters who weren’t going to vote for him just to make it look like his election was above board. He was sitting with his staff, watching a local television reporter reporting on what he was calling the “disastrous” train tour of his campaign. “…and after just two stops, stops in which the candidate managed only to insult everyone, one has to wonder, is this idiot serious?” Earle Edgar shot off the couch and grabbed a full bottle of beer he had been planning to drink, and hurled it at the television. Instantly, the thing exploded, sending shards of glass and beer everywhere. The shocked staff sat there in silence, checking themselves over for cuts. “Who do these bastards think they are? Of course I’m serious, hell, if I wasn’t serious, why would I put myself out there to put up with their abuse?”

Everyone appeared to have come through with all their limbs and, although shaken, unscathed. The boss’ temper was becoming dangerous to be around lately. Each of them was terrified of the future. What would he do if he lost?As the election drew closer, his campaign staffers tiptoed around Earle Edgar like he had the plague. He was getting unbearable. He worried constantly about everything. Why was the press hounding him? Was the rigging of the voting machines, which had worked so well in the primary, going to go undetected? If so, and he won, was there enough champagne for everyone? He himself hated champagne, and he had a case of beer ready for himself, but all of his supporters would expect it. Had he done enough to make it appear the election looked legitimate? The more he thought about it, the more he thought he should move his victory party from his campaign headquarters to The Blind Funnel. If everything went according to plan, what better place to celebrate? If it didn’t, what better place to cry into his beer while surrounded by his acquaintances than the place where he was most comfortable? In the end, he decided move the party’s location.


The Blind Funnel Tavern was very noisy, with all of his supporters and complete strangers yelling to make themselves heard above the din. Earle Edgar was straining to hear the election results on the big screen television. His supporters and the others had gathered at The Funnel to watch the returns. Smoke from cigarettes drifted lazily in blue clouds across the screen. Raucous laughter from revelers filled the air. The Blind Funnel’s owner sat and watched the party atmosphere with glee. He was going to rake it in! Earle Edgar tore his gaze from the screen and looked around at the jam-packed tavern. He didn’t know most of the people packed inside, but they had been gathered by the “Free Beer” signs placed in the window. He had decided he would pay with the last of his fake money for all the beer tonight. He wanted the tavern to be full of his supporters and others for the television news to capture with their cameras. Only the expected television cameras had yet to arrive. Apparently, they were convinced he was a joke of a candidate and decided it wasn’t worth their time to cover him. Well, screw them, they’d soon be sorry.


The announcer cut into the television coverage, and Earle Edgar yelled for quiet. “And we can now announce definitively that Earle Edgar Davis will be, against all odds and logic, the next Governor of the State of Alabama!” The announcement of the election results continued, but no one inside The Blind Funnel heard. The place exploded with delirium. Along with his supporters, those who had been lured in by the promise of free beer were also looped that they, too, and were caught up in the excitement. Everyone was slapping Earle Edgar on the back in congratulations, so much and so hard that he couldn’t catch his breath, and soon slumped to the floor unconscious. The people were all celebrating so much that at first no one noticed his body on the floor. Then at last someone did, and hauled him up to a sitting position.

“Hey Earle Edgar, you okay? Someone asked. He sat there, not moving, propped against the bar, and didn’t stir. When at last someone came up with the brilliant idea that he might be a good idea to call the fire department, Earle Edgar stirred, and the gathered crowd gave a sigh of relief, then someone said, “You passed out!” Then he remembered vaguely,

"Oh, now I remember. Passed out, my ass, I won the election for governor, and you bastards beat the living shit out of me, so I could not catch my breath.”

“Sorry man, we were too excited I guess,” someone replied.
“Oh, that’s alright. You probably didn’t mean it. I guess it’s kind of exciting for you all too.The champagne was brought out that Earle had given to The Funnel’s owner for the victory toast. He was a little pissed that he’d had to give the owner another thousand bucks to look the other way, but then it wasn’t real money. Everyone had grabbed a glass, except Earle Edgar of course, as he was drinking yet another beer, and he signaled for quiet.

“My friends, I could not have done it without you!” Inside he was thinking he’d sure like to have tried. “Now that I’m Governor I’ll make sure everyone gets a piece of the pie! Here’s to four, and hopefully eight, more years of my leadership!”

Everyone cheered and took a drink from their champagne while Earle Edgar hoisted his beer and guzzled until it was empty.


© Copyright 2019 Mike S.. All rights reserved.

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