MEETING

When John arrived at the Burger Caper, he was pleased; the meeting had drawn a throng of loyal followers. In all, thirteen people had arrived, necessitating a hastily improvised table conglomeration in the middle of the restaurant. John recognized exactly four people, excepting himself; Ophelia, Thomsen, Hakim, and Isaac, a mutual acquaintance of his and Ophelia's.

Three of the other members sported berets. One had a goatee. Other than Ophelia, there were only two girls at the tables; one of them was with the punk delegation; her hair was blue and spikey. The other was tall and ungainly, with remarkable silky blond hair tied back in a ponytail; she was caught up in conversation with Isaac.

The remaining three sported black leather jackets, hard soled boots and faces full of metal. They had ordered nothing. John thought they looked as though the very act of not rising up and destroying the sick commercial society around was taxing them to the limits of their restraint. Ophelia thought they looked constipated, but thought better of mentioning it.

Chit-chat filled the time before the food arrived. John tried to learn names.

The punks were Angela, Ogre, Ron and Matt.

Isaac's girlfriend was named Yvonne. The beatniks were named David, Nathan and Sam.

Soon, however, everyone but the punks were united in their consumption of a delicious repast of American cuisine. Burgers, fries and malts were all in full effect.

"Mmmgh..." said Thomsen. "These burgers are really good."

John had commentary: "Actually, according to the menu, uh.."

"Yeah?"

"Well, they're `more than legendary'," said John.

"What?"

John cleared his voice, and read from the Burger Caper's trademarked green and white menu. "`Here at The Burger Caper, you're in for something criminal... Criminally delicious, that is!'"

John paused for the laughter.

"Anyway, Uhh, `A scrumptious feast of food awaits you...food so good, it should be illegal! Steal away to The Burger Caper and apprehend a Suspicious Steak, a Felonious Falafel, delicious 100% Idaho potato Fry Fingers or, of course one of The Burger Caper's more-than-legendary burgers."

"`Fingers'? Fingers don't relate to the whole crime motif..." commented Ophelia.

"Unless you're cutting them off of stool pigeons," added Thomsen, thoughtfully.

"That's not the point," said John, laughing. "The point is that The Burger Caper's burgers are actually more than legendary. They're not just a central theme of an epic story that binds our culture together. No. They're so tasty, that we are inately aware from the day we're born that The Burger Caper's burgers are, uh, `Savory patties of 100% Grade A beef prepared to perfection and garnished to your heart's desire.' Caper Burgers are for all intents and purposes, at the right hand of God."

Everyone laughed, except for Thomsen, who was clearly very impressed. He set his burger reverently back on his plate, and began to weep with religious fervor, muttering over and over again: "I am not worthy, I am not worthy..."

Legendary: Of, relating to, or characteristic of a story coming down from the past; esp. one popularly regarded as historical although not verifiable. Applied more often than is necessary. Generally used as hyperbole. Clearly inappropriate when applied to hamburgers.

Once the burger eating fervor had died down a little bit, Ophelia addressed the group. "Basically, folks, we're gathered here together today to make sure you're all accepting of the idea of us putting you on the ballot. If all thirteen of us win, we'll have a one-man majority in student government."

"So, basically, once we're in office, we can go hog wild...And all you guys have to do is let us use your names on the ballots," said John.

"Exactly. John, Ophelia and I will be the principal motivators of this revolution. Any additional assistance would be appreciated, of course, but all you really need to do is sit back and relax," added Thomsen.

The group seemed to take this pretty well.

"Okay, though, how are we going to get people to actually vote for us?" asked Hakim.

John was ready for this. "People are inherently apathetic. There's usually like a 2% election turnout, campus-wide... Which could be good if we can flood the polls with even a small group of our supporters, but it also indicates how hard it is to get people to actually get out there and vote..."

"I dunno," said Isaac, "I was thinking we could get endorsements from campus clubs and stuff.."

"Noooo no no...Check this out." This was John. He was holding up a piece of paper for the group. It was two circles, one divided into a complex multipart pie chart, the other divided in half. The page was headed with bold letters saying:

"Ten Fat Fingers: Simplifying Student Government."

John pointed at the graph and went into lecture mode. "Check out it. Graph A is the traditional student government budget. It's complex, and boring and it has all these lame, complex budgetary breakdown things. Graph B, on the other hand, is simple and elegant. 50% of the student budget goes to free beer for students, and the other half goes to embezzlement and corruption."

"Hmm. Are you sure we want to put this embezzlement stuff right on our posters?" asked Yvonne.

"Of course! Kids these days are so hip that they'll dig our crazy cynical outsider outlook. Plus, when we actually start embezzling, nobody can claim we didn't warn them."

The crowd was impressed. An informal question and answer session ran on for another 20 minutes, at which the meeting slowed to a halt.

John addressed the throng. "Kids, I can't thank you enough for showing up... Remember to put your name, address and student number on the sign up sheet if you haven't already, and start spreading the word to everybody you know. The next meeting is in exactly two weeks, right here... We've got a, uh, major rally planned for Friday, November 21st, in the Upjohn Commons, so everybody tell your friends that we're going to have free beer and antics available. Also, we're planning to cause trouble at the football game on the 5th of December, so be there. And think of some political slogans in the meantime. Viva la revolucion!"

There were some muddled salutes, and then the horde hit the street.

November 21st: RALLY

The rally was held indoors in a room that John managed to rent for free from the university by persuading the appropriate bureaucrat that it was going to be used for "educational/academic related purposes". Technically, he was right; it was a school election, but he still felt sneaky and conniving. Which is to say that he felt good.

John was almost late for his own rally, due to an unmissable Japanese class. (All Japanese classes were unmissable, actually; a student missing more than two of the 120 classes per semester automatically failed.) When he arrived, he had to fight his way through the crowd to the knot of Ten Fat Fingers people clustered up near the podium. He greeted everyone, and turned to Ophelia. "Hiya... Jeez. That's a lot of people out there."

Ophelia seemed quite calm about the gathered group of students. "Well, we did use the free beer thing."

"And that worked this well?"

"Well, I also put the word out."

"...that?"

"Uh. Well." Ophelia blinked. "Well, I told people that Thomsen was going to get up on stage and smoke crack cocaine."

This was news to John. "Ahh. And is he?"

"I certainly hope so, at this point."

"Ophelia, you're either an evil genius or just deranged. If we get arrested, it's the latter. Otherwise, we must have 500 people out there..."

"Certainly. You want to kick this thing off?"

"You betcha!" John hopped up to the podium, smiled, and waved at the crowd. There was no visible reaction. People continued to mill around. Someone yelled "Bring on the crack!"

John gave the crowd another big smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to the first rally of the new political power that's sweeping the nation in general and State University in particular! Welcome to... Ten Fat Fingers!"

No reaction.

"Uh...Beer!"

Cheers, hoots and sporadic woops went up through the crowd. John grinned again.

"Okay. Beer! Beer! Beer! Beer!"

The crowd began to chant, obviously entertained. Certain individuals looked a bit uncomfortable as fists pumped in the air in time to the chant, but for the most part they went unnoticed.

John put his hands up in a "hold on" gesture, and spoke again. "But ladies and gentlemen, before the beer, may I present Thomsen Gunnarsen, our candidate for student council president... and his amazing, glowing, pipe of crack cocaine!"

More cheers rocked the crowd, accompanied by various derisive shouts. Thomsen stepped up to the podium, and began to address the crowd in a flat monotone. "Thank you. As you well know by this period in time, Ten Fat Fingers is the only vehicle for change. You must depend on us for your leadership. We will lead our campus into a glorious new future of authoritarian rule and increasingly structured domination by a trained elite. We will rule. Our legions of martially disciplined student/revolutionary soldiers will march by the thousands to conquer the campuses of rival educational facilities. The gates will open; the hordes will issue forth."

The crowd looked at Thomsen with slack-jawed confusion as his tirade built to its conclusion, his voice building to an almost enthusiastic pitch as he brought out a glass pipe from under the podium. "In keeping with this proclamation, I will now smoke crack cocaine."

A hush fell over the crowd as dozens of conversations died together, cut short by the man behind the podium, bringing the pipe to his lips.

Thomsen put a lighter under the pipe. The white substance inside began slowly transforming under the heat of the flame. All eyes in the room were now focused on the podium, the group as a whole completely silent and transfixed.

Thomsen put the pipe to his lips. He looked at the crowd. The crowd looked back at him, almost silent.

He inhaled.

Wild cheering broke out, and John stepped up to the podium. "Yes, thank you, thank you..." he said, arms in the air, in an almost Nixon-like fashion. "As you can see, Ten Fat Fingers is the one party bold enough to have a Presidential candidate who not only endorses illicit narcotics, but is also willing to come out in public and openly wrap his lips around that great glass dick known `crack cocaine'." John paused for a moment, gathering the restless crowd's positive energy around himself like a mantle.

"So, uh... who wants a beer?"

The assembled students went crazy. On cue, the dozen lesser Ten Fat Fingers candidates began opening cases of beer hidden behind the podium and slinging beer out to the crowd. 6-foot-tall jocks competed with petite female English majors in an all out squabble for beer. John appealed for calm as the crowd reached a near-riot level of excitement.

"Please, please... everybody be calm. If you are under 21 and happen to catch a beer, please do not drink it. Instead, calmly return it to the nearest Ten Fat Fingers operative, or give it to someone who can consume it legally..."

The crowd slowly began to disperse as it became clear that the rain of free beer was slowly grinding to a halt. John got back on the microphone.

"We're outta beer folks... but remember! Elect Ten Fat Fingers, and it'll...just... keep...coming!" The crowd gave appreciative whoops mixed with boos of disappointment regarding the termination of the beer supply. They slowly dispersed.

Ten minutes later, enthusiastic, exhilirated and talking a mile a minute, the thirteen hardcore members of Ten Fat Fingers spilled collectively into The Burger Caper and ordered a terrific amount of food.

"Okay," said John upon the arrival of the orders, "we've got slogans to bust out with. Anyone who's got 'em, read 'em!"

Thomsen read his first.

"Uhhm.. Okay. Here goes. Uh... `Ten Fat Fingers: Failure to elect us will result in sporadic and indiscriminate acts of anal violation."

"WHAT?" asked Ophelia. "WHAT?"

"Too wordy," said John, "Next!"

Isaac read his. "`Ten Fat Fingers: 52-40 or Fight!'"

"I like it, but I'm a history major..."

Hakim went next: "`A giant eunuch is a massive vassal with a passive tassel. Vote for Ten Fat Fingers.'"

"Very rhythmic. I like it! Ophelia?"

"Uhm, okay. `Ten Fat Fingers: In the Name of Jesus!'"

"Not baaad! Okay, here's mine... `Ten Fat Fingers: We're Just Plain Smarter. Which we are. Speaking of which, here's our plan."

John pulled out a little easel-type stand with a piece of paper on it representing the school-going population of State University. "Basically, our goal is to get two representatives in every dorm on campus. I've done a little research. If the pattern of voting attendance holds true from previous elections, the election will be decided on the strength of approximately 600 voters. There are almost 25,000 voters in student housing. If our members can convince 2% of the dorms to vote for us..."

"We'll win," concluded Ophelia.

The room grew hushed.

"Can we do it?" asked Nathan. "I mean, do we actually know enough people in the dorms who could actually get that motivated?"

"How motivated do they have to be? All they have to do is talk to all of their friends, give the little beer and antics speech that we'll write, and I'm sure a residual small amount will actually walk all the way down to the cafeteria and vote. And that small amount will talk to their friends. No one can preach like the recently converted... And this second generation, well, they'll vote too. Will we get 2%? I think so."

"You're pretty optimistic..." opined Isaac.

"Optimistic?" John laughed. "I'm betting that students will vote a bunch of openly dishonest jerks into office on the strength of these aforementioned jerks providing them with free beer and self-degrading entertainment. If that's an optimistic view of human nature, I'd love to talk to an actual genuine pessimist."

Everybody laughed.

"So," said John, "our plan depends on massive dorm canvassing and beer distribution. If each of you could contribute $10 toward the beer fundage, we'll get our custom labels slapped on the cans within the week, and we can all start fanning out and working the streets."

The group's reply, almost to a man, was: "TEN BUCKS?"

John sighed. He had seen this coming. "I know. It sounds like a lot. But think about it this way: it's either buy that CD you've wanted for a couple weeks, or overthrow student government. Does ten bucks sound possible?"

Most people grumbled that it would be. A few even produced bills and checks, which John snatched up immediately.

"Excellent! Thanks much, folks. Next meeting in a week, at which point we'll have propaganda and illicit alcohol...and whoever wants to is welcome to join Thomsen and I at the next football game. We have planned mischief."

"Uhhm, I also have one thing to add..." added Thomsen. "As the Presidential candidate, I would like to insist that the dominating theme of our campaign be restricted to the unbending authority that our regime will project upon taking power."

"And crack," added Hakim.

"And crack, I guess," agreed Thomsen.

John looked at both of them slackjawed for a moment. "Uhhh....Thanks for putting things in perspective, guys. Meeting adjourned!"

&#183

Monday, December 3rd.

Due to unavoidable studying at College Library, John didn't return to the house until eleven in the evening. When he got in, he discovered Tim sitting on the floor of the living room, peering at a timetable for Spring Semester classes, surrounded by a perfect circle of nine empty beer cans.

"Hey, Tim. You look like a demon in a pentagram. What's up?"

"Wha? Oh, I'm working on my schedule next year."

"That's cool. What're you taking?"

"I dunno exactly...you know, stuff." Tim peered at his timetable for a while, as John looked on. He tried very hard not to vomit, and succeeded.

"Oh...Fuck. I gotta take an 8:50 next semester..."

"What? No you don't."

"Yeah, I do.. I need... I need Basic 20th Century Political Thought and Organization for my major..."

"That's no reason to take an 8:50. Change your major." John spoke with gravity and authority.

"You think?"

"Hell, yes! Look, you're in the humanities, I'm in the humanities. History, political science, Zimbabwean geography, whatever... It's all a bunch of academic chutes and ladders. If one of your bogus classes requires you to get up before 11 in the morning, just keep switching majors until you get one that works."

"Yeah, but..."

"Well, okay. Let me put it this way. Are you honestly hoping for a career within the exciting field of Integral American Policy Studies?"

"I was thinking law school..."

"Right. That's a big fat cop-out, but you're just like the other 25,000 non-math/science people on campus in that respect. So screw your 8:50, figure out a new major that gets you your 120 credits, and sleep easy."

"I must be drunker than I thought. That's making sense..."

"Whatever, whatever. I'm off to bed."

John entered his room, and went to sleep. Tim switched majors.

A day later, John ran into Ophelia within the labyrinthine halls the old Upjohn Commons, the most popular place on campus to meet people by accident. The nature of Commons' floorplan was such that it was an almost unfathomably complicated jumble of halls, open courtyards, classrooms and doorways, meaning that finding things by accident was probably the only way that things were going to be found. As it was, Ophelia tapped John on the shoulder as he cruised past her in the hall, oblivious to her existence.

"John! Hey, how's it goin'?"

"Not too bad. Life continues unabated. Where're you off to?"

She shrugged, hugging her art history book to her chest. "I just got out of Medieval Mosaics and Tapestries... I think I going to walk downtown and get lunch at Feste's Garden. You're welcome to join me, if you like..."

John thought for a moment; he had a mandatory Music Theory discussion and quiz, followed by a review session for his Cultural Perspectives: Understanding Laotian Ceremonial Ladles and Spatulas class. From an academic standpoint, a leisurely lunch was clearly impossible.

From a social standpoint, it was clearly impossible to refuse. As an undergrad, John had his priorities straight.

"I'd love to!"

"Shall we, then?"

And so they set off. Lunch for John was a scrumptious pasta, white sauce and mushroom combination, while Ophelia, an avowed fungus-hater, had the chef's salad. Gesticulating with her fork, she asked John something that had been on her mind for while.

"Okay, John. Here's a question I've been meaning to ask you for a while... What made you join Ten Fat Fingers? What made it seem worthwhile?"

John finished his current mouthful of noodles, bit his lower lip for a minute, and finally delivered his answer. "Hmm. Allright, if you want to get into the origins of all this, I guess it all goes back to high school student council... I have no clue what your high school student council was like, but..."

Ophelia rolled her eyes dramatically.

"...right, that's about what we had, too. I'd have to say that 95% of the members were self-obsessed, lazy, arrogant bastards who didn't care about anything except for skipping classes for meetings, the `prestige' (well, such as it was) of being a member, and being able to talk about their `student council experiences' on their college aps."

"And the other 5%...?"

"...were idealistic and inept."

"So what made you join?"

"The free donuts, I guess?" Ophelia gave him a somewhat caustic look, prompting him to hasten to continue. "Well, you know, I was curious to see how things actually worked... I came in with some sort of naive assumption that I could maybe pass some bills that would do the students at large some actual good, but by the end of the year, I wanted to execute every last person involved with the mess, myself included. So I guess I see Ten Fat Fingers as a way to finally be able to pull that trigger."

Ophelia didn't really react. "Hmm".

John shrugged, and worked on his pasta a little before continuing.

"Plus, if we actually get elected, there's always that chance, however small, that we'll think of something actually useful to pass, and we'll get around to doing it. I dunno, there's just something inherently terrific about the combination of having power, and actually being able to use it for something greater good... You know what I mean? There's just something intoxicating about having both the means to change the way things work, and an idea of what you actually want to use those means to accomplish..."

Ophelia cut him off, talking a mile a minute. "I completely agree! It's... The feeling of knowing oneself to be competent, assuming a public position where you can use your skills, and being able to point at the results and say: `look! hah! I got things done, and when I was running the show, everybody benefited!' I mean, back when I was editing the Ragged Muse, the best feeling in the world was getting a final edition in my hands, and being to look at it and think: I made this happen. I organized the funding, I found the contributors, I did the layout and got it to press, and because of my efforts, a lot of people got to express some occasionally worthwhile art to the entire world. I don't know, I just miss that feeling of having all those destinies resting in my hands...even in a superficial way! ...and being able to deliver."

"It might possibly be the best feeling in the world," John agreed.

"Possibly," grinned Ophelia.

John smiled at her mischievously. "So what is it you want to do with your life, anyway?"

Ophelia's eyes lit up. "Academics! I want to stay in college forever and ever and keep getting degrees, and become a professor and kick students' asses if they don't care what's going on, and actually show them what's what if they do. I want to use props in lecture. Have you ever considered what kind of an impact it might have on you, if on your first day of class, your professor smashed a watermelon with a sledgehammer? Especially if she was small and female?"

"Well, uh... Other than worrying about Gallagher's direct influence over the person who was supposed to be teaching me, I guess it'd be pretty cool..."

"The watermelon's just an example, silly. But you see what I mean? Eight out of ten professors don't care about lecturing; they just get out their outlines, plod through them, and call it a class. I want to entertain. I don't care how many stupid cheap tricks it would take, but dammit, people would stay awake in my classes, and they'd learn stuff, and they'd like it!"

"Wow. I wish I had things figured out to that level...That's an awesome ambition..."

Ophelia gave him a big smile. "Thanks! How about you?"

"Mmm...law maybe? Ideally, I don't know.... I'd like to join the ACLU. I'd like to find out outrageous things about the rich and powerful, and make sure the public got to hear about them. I'd like to really annoy the power elite...before I inevitably caved in and wound up joining them."

Ophelia raised her eyebrows. "You think that'd happen?"

"Unless I failed with my life... I mean, I'm as corruptible as anyone else, if not more... And I have a hard time imagining myself rejecting an offer to join a big firm, and make $120,000 a year, or to publish a book, make huge royalties, and just start writing fiction for my own entertainment. Or maybe not. Maybe the money wouldn't tempt me, but maybe I'd just get tired... or maybe I'd get tired, or scared or jaded. I'm in no position to set my own future..."

"If you're not, who is?" she challenged.

"God, or no-one, depending on God's existence and actual day-to-day involvement with reality... Anyone who knows for sure what they'll be doing at this point is likely an egoist, a person who plans to inherit the business from dad, or someone who doesn't understand the way the world actually works."

"Ah-hah. And you're someone who understands the world?"

John grinned. "Sure! The world does random stuff. Sometimes you get screwed, sometimes you get lucky. You need to keep going, but eventually you die, regardless. Maybe things will work out, and maybe not."

"So, are you trying to tell me that life is just life and then you die? Hmm?"

John grinned and shrugged in mock-modesty. "Sure. I mean, if you want to go find some deeper meaning to keep yourself happy, that's your own business, but personally I think things are crazy enough without assuming that there's great big unchangable moral and religious laws governing the universe. Things just are, and it doesn't matter a damn what you do, as long as you have an entertaining trip."

At this point, Ophelia voice rose, until it was just under the boundary that separated spirited public discourse from a bona fide public disturbance. "John, that's a total cop-out! Look at everything out there that people believe in; look at Truth, look at Beauty, look at the miracle of the human brain, for God's sake... Or for whoever's sake. Mine, even. How can you just...you know what I mean..."

"Not really!"

"Shut up," she grinned. "I mean, how can you just write off several millennia of human history, the wonders of the cosmos and the mysteries of the universe as if they were all just a bad crossword puzzle that you've already solved? I mean - can you even do math?"

"What?"

"You know, mathematics. It's this one branch of human knowledge consisting of-"

"Okay, okay. Well, sort of. Uhm. I can do addition, for sure, and subtraction. Subtraction: addition's tricky pal..."

"Right. Case closed. You're a math illiterate. How much do you know about art history?"

"Ha! Quite a lot. Let's see... For a long time, people painted pictures under the auspices of the Catholic church...mostly religious themes dominated... then came the Renaissance and a return to the ancient humanistic values of the Greek city-states..."

"Okay. So you have a somewhat sketchy idea of Western art history. How about African art? Or Indonesian? Or South American?"

"The Aztecs made some really cool comic-book sort of wall engravings, I think."

"Mmm-hmm. Human anatomy? Ancient Chinese theology? Quantum physics? How're you on these? Not so great?"

"Two people important to physics: Niels Bohr, and, uh...Enrico Fermat!"

"John, your ignorance is astounding in its magnitude."

John bit his lip, and nodded. "Yeah. I suppose it is."

"Well then. How can you be so cocksure of your own philosophical views if you haven't even bothered to spend a few decades thinking reality out, first? Hmm?"

"You may have a point. It's a fairly stupid one, but I'll concede it exists."

"Fairly stupid?!"

The discussion got out of hand, adjourned to a coffee shop, and lasted all afternoon. They got nowhere, but they both enjoyed it.

Roseberry frowned. "Well - there's some pretty stiff rulings about that. You can't play college football AND go to school. They tried that once, and you know what a silly mess that was."

-Player Piano, Kurt Vonnegut

"Touchdown!"

The crowd was a sea of 50,000 men, women and children dressed in red sweat shirts, white pants, white jackets, red hats, red gloves, white socks, and red scarves. Currently, it was going absolutely bananas. Ophelia, Isaac, Hakim, and John were at the game, too. They were also going absolutely bananas, albeit sarcastically.

Their sarcasm was lost on the crowd.

"How much more of this `bonding' do we have to sit through?" yelled Isaac over the newly redoubled roar of the crowd. Some heavyset men on the field had just crashed into some other heavyset men.

"As much as it takes to get us through half-time!" yelled back John. "Then...we bring truth to the masses." Isaac grinned, and went back to reading "The Hobbit". Minutes passed. Ophelia leaned over to John, and yelled in his ear. "I brought that CD for you!"

He yelled back a "Thank you!" and took the CD from her, giving her a folder in exchange.

"My poem!" he explained, over the renewed surging roar of the surrounding crowd.

A lull took place, and then half-time. Soon, the four Ten Fat Fingers were running amok in the crowd, handing out pamphlets.

"Help save student government!" they shouted as they handed them out. The recipients, far from embracing this attempted civic education, were universally displeased, and there was much cheering and derisive hooting when stadium security finally hauled John, Ophelia, Isaac and Hakim out of the stadium.

"Well, I thought that went pretty well," said Ophelia, as the four of them walked down the street.

"Agreed!" said John. "If that doesn't generate a black storm of animosity and derision for student government, then we didn't think hard enough..."

The pamphlets had been simple enough; "Stop Ten Fat Fingers! - brought to you by Student Government", they read. The body text was a little more involved, consisting of a list of the members of Ten Fat Fingers and reasons why they should not be voted into office under any circumstances.

"They plan to hand out beer irresponsibly!" one of them said.

"Ten Fat Fingers members have unfairly attacked the administration for being incompetent!" read another one.

"They plan to waste student funds on building Jacuzzis in the dorms!" read another one.

Hakim was really pleased about the Jacuzzis. "The Jacuzzis clinch it," h said. "Assuming anyone at the game can actually read, we're in."

In the next few weeks, an amazing amount of networking took place. John and Tim and Paul talked to their friends in the dorms, who talked to their friends, some of whom talked to their friends.

Five cases of beer went to Frat Row.

More posters went up, split equally between posters attacking Ten Fat Fingers, and posters extolling their virtues.

Ten cases of beer to the dorms.

Stickers covered everything; these were all for the student government party. "Student government," they read, "we're makin' it happen!"

"Can't get any gayer than that," John had commented.

"With all due respect to, and no offense intended to those of alternative lifestyles," added Isaac thoughtfully.

"Yeah, yeah."

Another ten cases of beer went to selected house parties across campus,

"We'd better be reimbursed big-time when we get elected," grumbled Nathan, one of the more beatnikky members of the Fingers. He had wound up paying for almost all ten of the cases himself; he was a pushover.

"Oh, we will, we will!" assured Ophelia, as she cadged another twenty dollar bill out of him. Though she'd only paid for roughly half a beer out of her own funds, the amount of cash she'd charmed out of donors was probably equal to half of the party budget.

More pamphlets went out across campus; "Ten Fat Fingers...Satan's Minions!" seemed to be the most popular.

Five cases of beer handed out on the street, and it was election time.

On December 15th, a day after the networking had tapered off, the voting began.

It began at eight in the morning, with all dorm cafeterias serving as electronic polling places.

The turnout was incredible; all told, a record 5.2% of the electorate came to the polls. Lines stretched for feet, as students waited for minutes at a time to vote. And the excitement! People were consumed with a mild excitement, or if not excitement, at least a temporary sort of interest in the world in general. Arguments were had as to the ethics of politically motivational beer distribution, and packs of frat boys and dorm rats were driven to the polls through cajoling, taunting and outright bribery.

When it was all over, Ten Fat Fingers had been swept into office, to a man.

The victory party was long and weird, indeed.

It was held in a co-op, and had John known that 250 people were going to show, he would've gotten another barrel. The Ten Fat Fingers hangers-on were resourceful, however, and as techno pounded across the hastily improvised dance floor, pipes, bongs, pills and tabs came out in force.

Across the hall, in a triad of rooms cleared out for the purpose of mingling and lounging, a score of conversations blended and intercut.

"They would've gotten away with it, too, if it hadnt've been for us damn kids..."

"I'm hopped up on goofballs. Could you tell?"

"The trick is going to be getting the Swiss Bank account in the first place..."

"I think it's phatty!"

"Three-eigths for sixty dollars? Nay, forty-five, and not a haypenny more."

"Ping pong balls? I thought you said King Kong's Balls!"

"Okay, so all you have to do is drink a gallon of chocolate milk in twenty minutes. If you can do that, and not throw up or anything, I'll give you $20. If not..."

"His super power is the power of alcoholism!"

"He was with Dee-Lite before he went off and did his solo stuff..."

"I'm going to see if I can find John to congratulate him..."

"I wonder if Ophelia is around here somewhere..."

The two of them bumped into each other in the midst of the dance floor.

"Ophelia!" John shouted, over the din of the music, as he bopped along to the 148 beats per minute being pumped through the room.

"John!" she shouted back. "What's up?"

"What?"

"It's too fucking loud here!"

"Yeah!"

"So let's go!"

She grabbed ahold of his right hand, and pulled him through the madly bouncing throng toward the door. As well-wishers shouted victory salutes through a psychedelic haze of glory, the two of them escaped out into the cold night air.

From there on, it was all a haze; running...stars, The Hill, a couple of hundred squares of sidewalk...

John's house. They were breathless and still holding hands when they arrived. Walking through a darkened kitchen, the two of them stepped into John's room together, still holding hands, awkwardly now.

John dropped his grip, slowly, and pulled away from her a bit. "Well, we're here...Now what?"

She smiled and shrugged, and stepped closer to him, crossing into his space. She looked up at him, and realized he was wearing the look of a man about to attempt to kiss a woman.

It's a special look, one that is an unusual mixture of a starving man reaching toward a quarter-pounder with cheese, and the look of a man who has been stunned by a blow to the head. Ophelia caught it quickly, and pre-empted it.

She kissed John on the lips, gently, gingerly, lingering not at all.

John kissed her in return, sweetly, briefly, his right arm curling around her back, his lips staying for perhaps a second after the fact.

She threw her arms around him then, and with a crash!, they both let themselves be pulled onto the futon, she throwing her head back as he kissed her neck over and over. She was laughing now, as he kissed her as quickly as he could, making one rapid-fire connection after another, sending a storm of soft impacts traveling up her neck.

John stopped for a moment, laughing a low, quiet, silken laugh, his hair getting in his eyes. He was suspended horizontally above her now, supporting himself on his palms and toes, frozen at the top of a push-up. The only part of his body touching her was his nose, the tip of which gently brushed hers.

He looked into Ophelia's eyes, eyes that were as deep and brown as his own, feeling her hands coast across his back, pulling him down slowly, inescapably, pulling him down, until all he could feel was the warmth of her body, and the taste of her lips.

He wondered if she knew what she was doing.

She had no such doubts.

Two days later they were climbing The Hill.

The Hill was as much of a campus institution as any of the many historic buildings that dotted its surface. It was very large, very steep, and, in the winter time, very icy and hard to climb.

"The Hill, with its imposing height and steep, natural grandeur, is in many ways the physical compliment to the arduous but rewarding exploration of knowledge that classes taught at State University will provide. Like the majestic bulk of the Hill, the academic slopes of State University will find some young men foundering, even as others discover the soaring, liberating joys of knowledge that are discovered only after patient perseverance and diligent struggle."

Thomas N. Upjohn didn't have to walk up and down the Hill every day of his life, and therefore had the luxury to discharge this sort of smug rhetoric. For most students, the Hill was simply a pain in the ass.

But since most students regarded classes in the same way, it is possible that Dr. Upjohn had discovered a most serviceable metaphor.

It was up this hill that the fourteen Ten Fat Fingers advanced. At the top of the hill: Student Government.

It was time for the first meeting.

The guy who started the meeting off was Zenger. Vice-president Peter Zenger. He seemed like a reasonable enough fellow, but he didn't say too much after he kicked things offby letting Thomsen speak.

"And, with a quick statement of purpose to get us going for the year, here is the newly elected student government President, Thomsen Gunnarsen."

Thomsen stood up. His short stature and black attire did little to convey an image of power, but his eyes blazed with divine purpose. "Thank you. From time immemorial, man has struggled with the duality that the concept of authority contains. On one hand, authority is an iron fist, crushing all those who oppose it. On the other hand, authority is the source of all rewards, of opium, and spice and gold poured into the coffers of the those who serve its interests loyally. Now WE are this iron fist, and in months to come, we must choose who to crush, and who to groom into positions of power within our campus-wide network of strength." He cleared his throat, and noticed that the room had gone completely silent. Many of the non TFF members wore expressions of shock, or just plain discomprehension. "Uhhhm... Yes, anyway, since I have not yet mastered the reins of authoritarian power, I hereby turn the task of conducting this meeting over to...well, to whoever usually does it."

"Let's turn things over to Danielle, now," said a slightly shaken Zenger.

Despite Thomsen's intro, Danielle looked pretty pepped up about getting to run the meeting. "Okay, kids! Hi!" she said, forcing her big winning smile onto the room. "I hope we're all ready to go, because I know there's a lot we can accomplish this semester if we really try! But first, let's get to know each other. Okay, let's go around in a circle, and when it's your turn, give your name, hometown, one thing you'd really like to accomplish through student government, and your favorite flavor of ice cream!"

"I really hope this gets less stupid," muttered Hakim to John.

"Well, I brought pecans," said John, pointing at the three pound bag of unshelled nuts he had just dropped onto the table. "You're welcome to some, if you like."

Introductions were fast and furious, but John made an admirable effort to size up the opposition.

Shelley Shapiro: Treasurer. Very sarcastic. Not particularly bright. Apparently deluded into thinking she is in control of the entire student government. Very cute, but far too aware of it.

Favorite flavor of ice-cream: mint-chocolate chip.

Peter Larsen: vice-president. Somewhat serious. Likes to make the meetings move. Enjoys the melodious sound of his own honey-smooth voice, a trait that John can identify with.

Favorite flavor of ice-cream: double dutch chocolate.

Danielle Shelno: President of SURGE (Students Urging the Restoration and Guarding of the Environment). Hyperactive. Amputated sense of humor. Rabidly obsessed with the well-being of all life forms on Earth except college students.

Favorite flavor of ice-cream: ice-cream is made from the exploited bodies of miserable enslaved cows involved in the original milk production, and is therefore unacceptable for consumption.

Favorite flavor of frozen tofu: vanilla.

John liked none of them. The other nine student representatives didn't make any impression beyond being uniformly stylishly dressed, although it did seem as though each of them were associated with one of the three Student Government officers, with each officer seeming to have a group of 2-4 synchophants. Not a bad way to work it.

"Secretary of Finance, would you like to make an opening statement of intent and purpose you'd like to make before we begin?"

Attention turned to John, who was currently eating the big bag of pecans.

"Mmffgh," he said, shaking his head to indicate his disinterest.

"Allright," said Peter. "First on the agenda, is Danielle's plan for a `Save the Marsh Toads' rally at the central administration building

John tossed a pecan into the air before catching it in his mouth.

Danielle began talking at 1:15 in the afternoon. She concluded 37 minutes later. "So, I really think we all need to just get out there, as a united student government, and show what we think of an administration that would so blatantly destroy natural habitats!" There was a rousing round of silence. John was trying to see how many pecans he could fit into his mouth at once, or else he would've said something. Thomsen, however, spoke for him.

"Our new authoritarian regime will not have to resort to such petty efforts," stated Thomsen.

"We will simply order the environment to be untouched, and execute all offenders."

"Oh really?" asked Shelley, the treasurer. "Is that what you think?"

"It is what I know. And it is a crime against the State to question my word." Thomsen sounded confident.

Danielle glared at him. "Hey, why don't you try to address the issue of student government seriously, instead of being such a prima donna?"

"And why don't you eat a dick?" replied Thomsen, reasonably.

At this point, John did a "nut-take", spraying a random barrage of wet and chewed nut bits flying across the table onto Shelley's sweater.

"Oh Christ!" he shouted. "I'm so sorry! That was horrible!" He leaped from his seat to offer Shelley a handkerchief.

Shelley was dumbfounded, but seemed to accept his handkerchief in good faith.

John, now standing behind Shelley, decided to address the assembled group. His voice was haggard with the noble sort of disappointment and gravitas that one might associate with a Roman senator.

"Ladies and gentlemen... There's been considerable friction here today, and I know it's going to take time and hard work for us to really learn to bond together as a group. So, if I might propose an informal motion, I think it might be best if we simply adjourned for the day and meet again as a full council in a month."

All present rose to leave the room, except for Danielle. "I don't think so!" she said. "This is a motion, so we have to take a vote."

Ogre, the largest of the four punks in attendance, raised his hand. "Pardon me, good councilwoman..." he began. "I must insist that I be allowed to make a motion of my own creation at this juncture in time." He stood up, turned around, and dropped his pants to reveal his bare, substantially large, hairy ass.

Meeting adjourned.