Tinyman 2004  

It was a seedy business to be sure, truth be told, and sometimes Tinyman felt his tie unraveling during the waning cocktail parties, so many hands to shake, shaking hands, and the unbearable presence of the secret service guy.

Tinyman looked up from the double scotch and chocolate syrup, his face wavering in the fumes rising from the glass. "Oh sure, well I've been a disappointment to you long enough. The pain inside my head won't go away, not even in this breeze. And patient, let me tell you, I can pull a carpetbagging filibuster like no Philly this side of Toronto. And I'll be dag-nabbed if I ain't a sore loser." Having somehow ended his sentence, Tinyman was aghast and a little flushed. He never thought he'd make it this far. Desperately he tried to think of something to top what he had just said, but it was no use. He scrounged within himself for old-timey hoaxsterisms but came up empty-handed. He offered a weak grin and each exploding flashbulb was like a fishhook through his eyeball. "Well, gol'-dang, I could skin a raccoon" he considered, and exchanged hushed counsel with his colloquialism advisor, who advised against it.

By this point he had contracted prostrate cancer and had been assassinated, all of which was slowly but surely having some kind of effect on his popularity in the polls. Wheeze. Slowly Tinyman faced his tiredness, and began to drag himself out of the ground, his exhaustion complicated by his exhaustion.

Run, Tinyman, run.

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SB