THE CANDIDATE: Part One

by Robert Verdibello for the Autumn 2025 issue

Prologue #1: The End of an Era

It seems fitting that they learned of X’s death on the day before yet another election day. They had not seen or interacted with X in a number of years after a particularly disheartening and disturbing election day loss a number of years ago. The solidarity of the campaign broke on the beach of reality, strewn about and scattered. So, at the crescendo of yet another political race, and the beginning of the next, news circulated that X had passed. Freezing the past; the hard stop to the era.

To the candidate, running for office, no matter the outcome, is emotionally addictive. Throwing oneself into the mass of humanity to convince strangers to become willing participants in an exercise of mass distraction. A political campaign is not just about rational ideas and debates about the course of human events, but a spiritual and emotional marathon. The months spent on a campaign trail are full of optimism, anger, joy, frustration, and release.  

An election loss is akin to death for the candidate. The worst part about the loss is that the candidate has to face the world the day after. An overwhelming sense of depression and dread comes crashing through the mental gates when an election is lost. Every hyper-focused reason for a candidate’s existence during the term of the race dies and is swept into the trash with the balloons and confetti and half-eaten sandwiches and cold cups of coffee and plastic bottles of water. The serious candidate will try everything, make any promise, to avoid this conclusion.

Political victory brings its own relationship with death. Gone are the uplifting and audacious hopes and dreams of numerous campaign interviews, speeches, and organized rallies. The handlers encircle the candidate, and invite the victor into the VIP room. But the handlers are not there to stab or physically harm the candidate – Et tu? – rather they kill the campaign dreams and prioritize the promises into mandates. Everyone likes to be treated as a VIP. Waiting for the instructions. 

Prologue #2: In the Year 2000

The last full year of the so-called “Pax-Americana”. While most of the country remained titillated by the still emerging details of the Lewinski affair, a cadre of serious minded patriots were fixated on preparing for the century to come. These individuals, while superficially aghast at the publicly consumed appetites of Slick Willie, were transfixed by the meteoric impact of the scandal, mentally masturbating in front of the rising mushroom cloud of emotional response to stimuli. The raw power of one stained blue dress released for public consumption. But there was of course nothing wrong with using one’s private behavior and weaponizing it. What began with Kennedy and Nixon – hell, FDR hiding his paralysis, Woodrow Wilson hiding his incapacity – all personal information could be harvested and used as the operators saw fit. The dream of mass surveillance was born and could be realized thanks to mass technologies. You can be shaped and controlled by personal information that is released and then consumed by everyone. But first the data has to be gathered, networks consolidated and shaped; made omnipresent. First the public had to get used to the ever-present technological house guest who never leaves. The constant crackle of mechanized cicadas in the summer afternoons of anytime and anywhere.  Then grow trusting in the warm chromium glow of its blanketed embrace. Settle comfortably into the bosom of lovers sharing curated programming. The ideal lives wished upon screen-sized stars. A one-way relationship where no one gets hurt unless they really want it. Portable life made possible by an electronic parasite that never leaves the host.

The prior decade had ushered in the personal computing age. The joy of interactivity freed from the tyranny of the gate keepers and editors. The ability to type what one wants whenever one wants to whomever one wants it to be delivered. In order to ensure maximum effect players had to be selected who would not only permit the full societal transformation, but not put any obstacles or limits that would in any way interfere with the onrushing current.  

The future was now. The digital conversion would begin. There were two candidates that represented the duality of the coming technological revolution. On the one side you had the sitting Vice-President. Product of American nepotism. Trained in South-East Asia. An early believer in the power and reach of the internet, one could say (and he did) that he invented it. An all-American blond wife with a “cute” nickname. Got a little too overreactive and outspoken to the coming popular culture paradigm shift that she tried to curtail and sensor it, but that can be worked around even if it did cost points from the judges of the political gymnastics floor exercise. The tin man flexing in his speedo. Ready for orders. Perfect.  

On the other side you had a pure product of good, old-fashioned American-style nepotism. So steeped was he in the American Way that his father, a former President, was a lifetime member of skull and bones, and on the ground at Dealey Plaza in 1963. The father had mis-judged the speed of the onrushing computerization revolution, underestimating its power and influence in its pre-natal form, and been humbled by a blunt, straight-talking Texas instrument. So the son perfectly understood the importance of following orders. And his wife fit the Strafford mold. They were both telegenic and vacuous. Survey says – Perfect.

The house would win. The future would be guided according to the mandates established by the handlers. The future made secure in the control and direction of the handlers. The masses needed to understand that this was in their own best interests to accept the program despite any objections. Rejection of the installation would not be tolerated. Old fashioned methods needed to be employed through back rooms and ultimately the highest court in the land. Resistance would be futile so long as it was controlled and managed. The solution was simple and elegant. In order to complete the installation of the programming, there needed to be a galvanizing event to fuse the supposedly dueling halves. Nuclear-fuse it all together.

Prologue #3 – A Crescent Moon in September

America’s golden door. The entranceway to America for multitudes over three hundred years. What better place to demonstrate E pluribus unum? Watch your step. The problem of course is that by the end of the century the place had become a footnote in the grand march of manifest destiny. The golden door was forgotten in favor of the golden gate. A backyard that had been overrun with the weeds of neglect. Or so it appeared from the friendly confines of the beltway and the lofty perches of academia. Gone were the belching smokestacks and deafening train yards of yore. But they continued to live on in tall tales of the noble underclass told to elite children striving to maintain their rankings among their striving peers. Nobilesse oblige.

The previous decade had put the strut back into the region’s step. Gone were the rocky horror old days of gypsies, tramps, thieves, hippys, hookers, hos, johns, punks, junkies, crackheads, AIDS, and CBGB; replaced by Walt and Rudy. The broadcast studio for the indoctrination factory. Taking Requests Live(!) from the multitudes both within the continent and without. Spreading the gospel of corporate goodness throughout the globe. Sponsored by the Armed Services of the United States of America. The ultimate winged victory. We did it. Swish.

And to the immediate west, a background strip of land not quite part of the overall scene. The rusted out core of industries and technologies long gone by and generally forgotten. Sure, there were some natives living there – always are – but the natives can be shaped and taught their proper place by their betters. How hard can it be to convince a rag-tag bunch of natives, commoners, and permanent visitors to follow instructions, and to be told that what they most want out of life is comfort without the necessity of demanding equity in return? A perfect training ground for the big show. The indoctrination factory.

The ground was fertile. Resources ready to go to work; a better tomorrow after the work of today. Sorry for the appearance folks, but we are working on the set over here! The first heralds dispatched at the beginning of the last decade. Around here it always begins and ends with a real estate deal. Development being a uniformly global language. A lot of new wiring had to be installed.  Easier to build new buildings that can be outfitted with the necessary tech tools. We may be able to retrofit some old stock. Technology will be blanketed. Connecting everything and everyone. All at the same time. Any time the user wants. But what is the message? There has to be a message. Did anyone write the right message? Can we get the message out? Oh, we can distribute through the real estate community? Like a newspaper? We tried to do that and it was expensive and we did not get much bang for the buck. We are thinking of closing it down, actually. No, we are envisioning more of a community billboard – online. What line? The internet, the web. And how can one surf this web? On all the things that influence decision making. From what food you eat, to the clothes you wear, to the information you input, to the spread of behavior. Completely interactive. Everyone is an individual. The anti-uniform uniform. Number 9. We can create it, market it, distribute it, consume it, reduce reuse and recycle it, repackage it, and rebroadcast it. Number 9. The funds are supposed to be for the working class. Class is all how you define it. In America everyone is working for a living. The working class. Available for all types, makes and models. Don’t worry one of our guys is wearing a wire, we know what they are up to at all times. Our guy has been an asset since the late 60’s. A little bit of dirt under his fingernails will help him. He and his family will be well taken care of. Taking care of tomorrow today. Perfect. Fitter Happier Number 9.

Once dispatched to the backyard, they set about the task of clearing, pruning, tending, and training the inhabitants of the garden. Like medieval primates waiting for the return of the gods. The dominant clusters that had been allowed to expand for the previous twenty-five years would need to be eliminated. But it was not good to leave an untended empty space. The space would need to be filled by the groups that were thought to be appropriate for the time and space. The natives would be taught to understand that the uploading program was in their best interest. All they needed to do was to march behind the leaders pre-selected for them.  In their own best interests. Happy and content like a dog in its bed. Perfect.

When your country is at war liberalities and preferences need to be put in check. Leaders are required who can give, take and distribute orders. The twin gilded towers reduced to a smoking ruin. Feelings of shock and vulnerability peer down every solitary street corner. The city is shut down. No planes flying in the air. No commuter traffic choking the roads. The President has just given a speech to construction workers at the pile of rubble. We all need to do our part to defend our way of life. God Bless America and the New York Yankees.

End of Prologue

Chapter 1: Musical Chairs

“Okay, boys. The word has come down. The folks in charge want the black guy to win. And its been decided that we need to support MacNCheese in November”

“Do we want to do that? It could trigger some hard feelings. Are they going to let this guy run the whole show?”

“Dunno. This is the problem when guys overreach. Our man in D.C. backed the wrong horse. Now there is a price to be paid. You know that.”

“Yeah, well. I’ll pay the vig, but I’m keeping what’s mine. It’s earned.”

It was at that moment that the idea was born. Every transition of power and election cycle ended the same way. Bloody civil war as the old guard is killed and thrown overboard, exiled, or otherwise sacrificed for the blood lust of the masses. There had to be a smarter way. Sacks and Bottles looked at each other and then headed for the exit. Let the other guys in the crew have their fun drinking, smoking, and card playing. Those guys did not get the implications the way Sacks did. That is why Sacks has been able to not only survive, but thrive in the most hostile of environments.

“What do you think?” Bottles said to Sacks in the dimly lit asphalt lot. Music thumping through the walls of The Navel Base, a building held together by tape, nails, and petroleum jelly. 

“I don’t like it. Once they start picking candidates like that…” Sacks’s voice trailed off in thought. He still held the ¾ smoked cigar in between the index and forefinger on his right hand. Attempting a puff, the stogie was out. “The real issue is who suggests these candidates? We need them to pick our guys. Then it dosen’t matter who the pick is if all the picks are nice guys.”

* * * *

“Sir, HQ has sent another request for your POA regarding the roll-out of Operation Noah’s Ark.”

“Hmm? Oh yes. I suppose it is time.”

Commander Grayson lifted the ¾ smoked cigar out of the ashtray. He was not supposed to be smoking in the office as per regulations. He was now too senior to care about mundane regulations. After a full career, he was tasked with figuring out how to justify the continued, fully funded operations of the different service branches following the collapse of the Soviet Union. ‘Those damn Russians couldn’t even hold up their end of the bargain for forty years.’ He thought to himself. ‘I should have been well retired before they went back to harvesting wheat with hand tools.’ 

“Tell General Abernathy that I will give him a full briefing tomorrow at 0800.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Once again, this great country will be called upon to accept the multitudes. ‘That gives us the pick of the litter’, he thought, ‘but it also means we may have to let in some square pegs.’ The indoctrination factories will be re-opened in certain key strategic areas throughout the country. But this time, he swore to himself, we are going to be more selective in local leadership. Disciplined, serious-minded individuals who know how to follow orders; not charismatic hooligans, loan sharks, and pimps. No local clowns. And absolutely no free thinkers. This time they will make sure the pre-screening process is more comprehensive. The raw recruits will understand that it will be in their best interests. 

………

“Let me see if I understand what you are saying, Grayson.”  Abernathy was rubbing the side of his neatly shaven face. “In certain designated areas, we are going to remove the civilian electeds and install individuals we have pre-selected? Won’t the locals notice this?”

“They may. But if we have discovered anything in behavioral science it is that most people are very suggestible to targeted peer pressure. Herd mentality. Or as they used to say, ‘go with the flow.’ We can lead the horses to water, and we can make them think what we want.”

“But how are you going to get them to accept the process?”

“They will voluntarily submit to the process. All we need is a singular event – like the moon landing or Pearl Harbor – and you will see people lined up to volunteer. Plus, remember the ultimate lesson from Saigon, the quality of candidates at the local level in most cases is pretty lousy. If you are lucky, you get a charismatic policeman, fireman or military trained thug that you can keep installed for eight to ten years. Then they have to be refreshed, which ultimately leads to sectarian challenges. We just can’t let the crooks or the so-called social activists take control. Now that the Soviets are finished I think we have a window of opportunity.”

“Before the Chinese get involved, you mean?” 

“They may already be involved. Which is all the more reason we have to have our men in place. The public loves to line up behind the good guys.”

“Or women.”

* * * *

The activists are being priced out of Manhattan. They need a place to re-group and re-form. A place where children can ride bikes and kick the soccer ball around. Not everyone can fit under the tree in Brooklyn. Start with Hoboken then travel across the marshlands to Appalachia on the Hudson. At first the newcomers are like mana from heaven for the pious and observant who stayed behind and vigilant while the tribes dispersed to the lands of suburban tracts and white fences. Oh, look there is both a St. Peter’s high school and college. How charming. It is closer than the Bronx. But from the Bronx you can get to Westchester and Rockland. From Hudson County there is West Orange and some place named Nutley. Do they grow nuts there? 

Chapter 2: Harvest Time for Song Birds

He was making good time on the highway. He had been driving for thirteen hours straight. The last state before New Jersey always took the longest. Once you cross the water gap it starts to go real fast. Maybe it is the gravity well caused by New York City. He didn’t even know where to begin the series of necessary explanations. In the grand tradition of educated easterners, he had decided to travel west to be taught and to teach. He didn’t think he had the courage to leave family behind and venture forth into the great bosom of America.

First was university in the mid-west. He could only take two years of that nonsense. He got more serious and enlisted. Mother Green trained him for the emerging culture. Provided him with the technical skills and knowledge to seize the advantages of time and place. On discharge he emerged in the Pacific Northwest. All through graduate school he was told that was the future. Microchips and Software. Not stodgy Poughkeepsie, or uppity Boston. Not as quaint as Woodstock and Saugerties. Bars and rock music. The future was coming fast and he wanted in on the action. Until he realized where the power was. He was creating pathways for that power but not gaining any real tangible benefit. The checks and furnished apartment and adult version of children’s toys (were they supposed to be sexualized like that?) were nice and pleasant and designed for serenity and productivity by some re-trained Nazi Social-Scientist. At least he had a chat group he could commiserate with. If only the damn modem would dial up and connect. 

He did not plan on going downtown that day. He remembered hearing chatter and participating in discussions that there was some big gathering of the so-called business elite happening. Apparently there were calls for protests and folks from all over the country decided to show up. A combination of Woodstock, Altamont, and Lebanon.  

He was aimlessly walking with sugary coffee. Still not as strong as the stovetop espresso despite the claims. But at least it is not as ridiculously hot as McD’s. Then he saw the two factions staring each other down in the financial district. They reminded him of his G.I. Toys. The way he used to meticulously line them up into his mind action battle poses. Kung-fu grips for everyone! On the one side an army of backpack wearing, ski mask wearing action dudes wearing dark colors with lots of pockets. Armed with home made weapons; bottles and rocks. On the other side helmeted android-men with lots more pockets in tanks and other play-vehicles armed with real guns but non-lethal (so they say) ammunition.  Some assembly required. There was the crack of shattered glass and a burst of flame, and then the chaos started.

He never thought of himself as a revolutionary. But he figured, why not? He observed the days of clashes but froze up every time that he tried to pick up a rock to throw back at the helmeted soldiers, or even through a plate glass window. Following the initial days of clashes he discovered an online chatroom discussing the reasons for the protests. Based on what he had seen and experienced while working to create the technological pathways to ship books faster and more efficiently he realized that he agreed. He signed up.

Slowly, everyday became less about zeroes and ones and more about resisting the waves of oncoming mechanization. He began to feel guilty that he was no longer interested in climbing the corporate treadmill and so-called advancement. Feelings of guilt swelled up every time he received an email from back east. Dispatches from home; the goings on of siblings and former neighbors and cousins. Was there time and need to have a family? Burdens and weights. But he was in solidarity with his new family now. But he made a mistake. He had planted the seed of a real family. It was an accident. They both knew it. She was committed to the mission but could not bring herself to end another life. One ending was enough and it was too hard to do it again. They would be compromised. Relegated to being nothing but tactical support staff while shaking a fist at the shortcomings of public education.

He had heard rumors about an expansion back east. It took some convincing, but he was able to win the argument that he was a good candidate to go back to where he had grown up – had family still – to guide the installation.  He knew that they were not sure whether they could trust him.  Especially with a child on the way. But they knew that there was an efficiency to having someone who was already a member of a community go back and plant the seeds. It was not necessarily best practice, but it was a worthy experiment. He just had to be carefully watched and reassigned at the first sign of compromise. He had reached the limit of his indoctrination out west so heading back east was an easy decision for him.  For her it would take some adjustment.  But secretly she was excited by the prospects of getting into some real action.

Chapter 3: Bro Games

She had an innate understanding of numbers and statistics. For a brief amount of time she enjoyed playing with dolls and tea parties, but she became enamored by the simulated world online. The ability to create and to play God. Never the popular cheerleader she taught her male friends the cheat codes to their favorite video games. She was the white swan in the bro pond. Not many girl friends to be had in the computer labs. She had to push through biases and be more creative.

All of her classmates were focused on games played on both the field and on screens. Gambling. Everyone wanted to be the next Bloomberg or Gates or Jobs. She came to realize that the game of all games was elections. The world was shaped through politics, and politics could be programmed like a video game. Endless hours of trial and error; correcting mistakes; programming and re-programming. 

As she was perfecting the system she discovered that not everything could be broken down into code and controlled. She got swept up in a whirlwind of emotions and did the unthinkable and had a child. She was blessed, but now had to work harder to support herself and the child. She would travel the well worn path northwards first to Washington D.C. and then maybe New York or Boston. Hustling to find a benefactor to put her ideas into action. She was surprised by how resistant most politicians were to technology. Scared, afraid and needing to provide for the child, she put all of her ideas and charm into one last sales pitch. Finally a taker, but from all places New Jersey? Not ideal but she was ready for the adventure. Ready to provide. Perfect. 🏁

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