Hillary knelt down, staring at the pastry for several minutes before she spoke . “These,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper, “will do nicely.”
“It’s become so easy,” she continued, standing and smoothing her suit jacket under her anxious palms. “For all the money that goes into these campaigns, this is the blind spot. There are dozens of people who tell you how to shoot your next commercial, so many who will gladly go door to door. But no one hires food tasters any more.”
Hillary turned to the aide, her eyes wide and her smile broad. “And arsenic is so very, very cheap when you know the right baker.”
“Send a dozen to O’Malley. Include a card: ‘Welcome to the race. I know you’ll see it through to the end.'” Hillary turned to leave.
The aide paused the furious scribbling in her notebook. “O-O’Malley?” she stammered. “But he’s so far behind…”
Hillary wheeled, her smile melted away and her eyes burning with fury. In an instant her face was an inch away from the whimpering aide’s.
“It’s not about O’Malley, dammit, it’s about sending a message!” Hillary growled. Then, as soon as it started, the storm subsided and her face relapsed into its familiar, painted smile. Calmly, Hillary turned to leave as she gave a final order.
“Oh, and don’t forget to sign the card: ‘Love, H.'”
Jim Eltringham 