The camera pans across the interior of a fast food restaurant, and front and center is Madison Dyson, surrounded by a semi-circle of Engy's young campaign drones. They are all scribbling down notes on notepads or typing out reminders on their phones as Madison speaks.

In our continuing nightmarish foray into the heart of Mr. Bright's voting bloc, I present to you what passes for fine dining amongst Muddy's people. BEHOLD!

With a mocking flourish, Madison casts her arms out. The camera pans back to reveal that we are inside a....



Yes ladies and gents, Chick Fil-A, the Applebees of the South, where shame goes to die drowning in a vat of gravy. You see, the right to live and die by this particular sword is a source of pride for the Muddy's of America. Morbid obesity and a heightened chance of terminal colorectal cancer be damned in the face of finger lickin' chicken. The important thing you have to realize about Mr. Bright's voting bloc is that they are often incapable of delaying gratification. Like children, they rarely see past the immediacy of their own desires, resulting in broods of unruly snot nosed crotch droppings clogging the aisles at your local Wal-Mart, rampant alcohol and opiod abuse, and a lack of educational attainment because gosh darn it that's just too much work. So....

A fat woman with thinning hair and a Travis Tritt t-shirt that's been stretched to the limits waddles up to Madison.

You talkin' 'bout Muddy Waters?

Madison can't suppress a cringe before forcing herself to wear a smile.

Why hello citizen, yes I was talking about Muddy Waters.

Ohhhh myyyy GAWWWWW, 'dat man is FINE!

Are you sure we're talking about the same person?

'Sho as EVER! Ah see Muddy on the teevee and it git my bits so rile up I needa call Waylan for 'da SPONGE!

One of the campaign staffers pukes on her phone. Madison herself is looking a bit queasy.

An' he got alla 'dem purty teeth too! Ya know what I say? Open da mouf, count four oh more and son YOU READY TA SCORE!

MAW! Bobby sez he can hear his blood rushin' in his veins agin!

Behind Muddy's admirer we catch sight of the booth behind her, which is overstuffed by equally overstuffed greasy children. Seriously, each of these little fucks looks like a stand-in for the Michelin man. The fattest one has a feed bag tethered to his face, but his eyes are rolling back in his head.

Ya'all SHUT THE FUCK UP AND ATE YOUR CHICKIN'! Bobby ain't got no mo room ta bitch anyhow, 'dat 'ford-a-bull cares act done paid for his stents already!

Madison finally perks up, choking back the bile that had been creeping up her throat.

Wait, so you're a fan of Obama Care then?

The woman looks horrified.

Oh sweet Jaysus no! 'Dat Obammy Care got death panels and shit, I hears it on the teevee.

Madison looks around at the staffers with a confident smirk.

Well you have no idea how tickled I am to hear that! Thank you very much for your input.

Madison reaches into her purse and pulls out a “Dexter Bright for Senate” campaign button. She goes to pin it on the woman's shirt, but an intrinsic revulsion prevents her from doing so and she moves to hand it to her instead.

I sincerely hope Dexter Bright can count on your vote this November. He'll be working hard to make sure that all of Bobby's future stents are obtained in a free market heath care economy just like Jesus intended.

Why thankee ma'am. Yessir, Mr. Bright do got my vote!

In the background Bobby passes out into his feed bag, compressing it and causing the chicken and gravy slop within to slough out of the bag and onto the table and floor.

GOD DAMMIT BOBBY!

The fat woman rushes over to attend to her brood. Madison waits till she's out of earshot.

Jesus Christ, sometimes I'm tempted to feel guilty it's that easy but then I remember that they absolutely deserve it.

The soulless College Republican bastards all chuckle and nod their heads in assent. Madison looks up and past them and scowls. The Engineer has appeared in the interim, and he's at the counter placing an order.

I'll take one Crispy Chicken Sandwich, a side of fries, a large Coke, and a Cool Wrap to go. And hey, do you still do that deal where you basically take all the food and blend it into a slurry and put it in a feed bag?

Madison walks up behind Engy.

What are you doing?

Eating?

Madison turns back to the staffers and gestures with her head towards the door.

I'll see you all back at the office.

They all start to file out of the door. The one who puked on her phone is trailing vomit covered napkins as she desperately tries to save it. Madison walks up next to Engy, leaning on the counter and speaking in a low tone.

What the fuck is your deal lately?

As opposed to what's normally my deal?

You know what I mean. You don't seem to give a shit about this campaign lately. I'm doing all the work while you sit on your ass boohoo'ing about Caedus or sucking up to your son who will probably always hate you anyway. So I reiterate: what the fuck is going on?

Engy grimaces and also turns so his back is to the counter.

Fiiiiine. I'm having....doubts. About the campaign.

What kind of “doubts”?

Like if I even want to do it anymore.

Madison makes a throaty disgusted sound and tosses her head back to look up at the cheap lighting.

I knew it. I fucking KNEW IT. Engy, why did you even want to start this campaign in the first place?

He shrugs.

Because the evil megalomaniacal side of me that might be a pagan demon God from beyond the known reaches of human sanity and reason wanted to usher in an era of darkness and chaos and bloodshed that would give rise to the reanimation of his corporeal form in this dimension. Or, something like that.

Be SERIOUS.

I AM! But, I don't know. Things kinda changed, I guess. Maybe I'm just mellowing out with age. It happens.

So we're just gonna chalk all this up as a passing fancy and that's that?

You mean we can't?

Madison throws her hands up in disgust. Engy's tray of food is brought out to him and he picks it up, walking over to a booth. Madison follows and slides in across from him.

All this work and it's just gonna get flushed down the shitter?

Engy takes a bite from his chicken sandwich and rolls it around in his mouth a bit before proceeding.

Why don't you just take over for me? Run for Senate in my place.

Because DUMBASS, I'm NOT a resident of West Virginia! You need to be a resident to run for Senate in that state.

Yeah, and the only reason I'm a resident is because my parents left me their shitty broke ass trailer that I was born in, and I never changed my residency because I was so fucked up all the time. Tell you what. You got a dollar?

Yeah, why?

Engy pulls out a pen and starts scribbling something on a napkin. Madison looks at him quizzically until he finally stops and spins the napkin to face her.

There. A deed of sale. I'll sell you my shitty trailer for a buck, it becomes your “residence” and you change your residency and run for Senator in the great state of West Virginia.

None of this is legal.

Like that has ever stopped you or your shady team of ambulance chasers before.

Madison picks up the napkin that Engy has crudely written “Deed of Sale” on top of. She bites her bottom lip, deep in thought.

Alright. Deal. But are you absolutely sure about this?

Yeah, I got some other priorities now.

His eyes seem to take on a darker hue as he rips a huge chunk out of his sandwich.

Later....

We see Engy packing up his desk at what used to be his campaign headquarters. A garbage bag is tossed out atop the desk, and he's dumping things into it. Presently, it's a stack of titty mags he was hiding in the bottom drawer.

Well Muddy, “all good things” yadda...yadda. I've decided the political life just ain't for me. And I actually have you to thank for that, in part. Seeing you these last couple weeks since you've drunkenly lurched your way back into our hearts, it really got me thinking what my priorities in this life should be. Mostly because you're a man who's completely lost sight of your priorities, and you're miserable, lonely and pathetic because of it. The quintessential “what not to do in this life.” I started asking myself, do I want to end up like Muddy? Is that what I want for myself? To doom myself to a life of unhappiness because I let my baser urges get the best of me?

Like I said before, this campaign was about nothing but power for me. I wanted my finger on that fucking button. But that was BASE shit. That was nothing but pure ID driving the car. And in these last couple months I've realized there's a bit more to life than that kind of basic dumb animal crap that makes you feel good in the moment but ultimately leaves you hollowed out in the long run.

I kinda think that's what's wrong with you Muddy. Forgive me for going all Dr. Phil pop-psych on your ass, but I think you've spent a life time letting “the moment” rule your life, whether that moment is getting your dick wet or gettin' just one more taste of Jim Beam before pussying out on calling your daughter again. You need to get some vision for your future man. Reassess your priorities. And for God sakes BUY SOME SOAP.

I'm honestly not expecting you to get what I'm sayin'. Not yet anyway. You're still living in the zoo, content to let handlers feed you while you pick your ass and flick the turds at the glass. You're not even AWARE of your options yet. But you could be. And I might even be in the kind of giving mood to help you out with that.

Ya know, I AM conducting interviews for a new tag team partner. Now I'm not saying you're a shoo-in. Lotta guys and gals want that spot. But, if you put the effort in...maybe...juuuuust maaaaybe......I could be the guy to help you get your shit together.

Think it over. What do you really have to lose?

Engy dumps his secret stash of weed into the bag. Checking the drawers one last time to ensure they're empty, he hefts the garbage bag onto his shoulder and with a pleasant whistle sees his way out of the office for the very last time.