"Taking
the pledge will not make bad liquor good but will improve it.” -
Mark Twain
“Practically
considered, the main difference between Republicanism and Democracy,
is the difference between the highwayman and the sneak thief. This
being so, the question naturally arises: What are we going to do
about it? Nothing. That is, not yet. The time may come when the
people will choose public servants for fitness, and will demand that
they keep the pledges made as a condition precedent to election, but
it is far from us.” - William Cowper Brann –
The Iconoclast
Six Shooter Junction – Rambling late last night on the fair side of the river, I visited
a spiritualist's parlor, the location of which I have been bound in
strictest confidence to not disclose.
As
a favor to we of the scribbling trade, the hostess had arranged to
call forth two ink-stained gentlemen from the Victorian era – a
bygone time when America was in her ascendancy from adolescence, and
had emerged in maturity as a world power, informed by telegraph...
Messrs.
Samuel Clemens, Mark Twain to his many fans; and William Cowper
Brann, a personality well known to learned and discerning consumers
of the printed medium as “The Iconoclast,” were conjured and
brought forth to give their views on the amazing happenings of late
in our Courthouse, what with the County Judge suddenly announcing his
premature retirement, and his insistence that the appointment of his
successor be made prior to the end of the month, while he yet has a
vote on the matter.
The
two venerable scribes were much taken by an insistence that the
candidates so hastily considered have “taken the pledge” to not
stand for re-election to the post, which pays roughly $135,000 per
year, plus benefits.
“Balderdash!”
shouted Mr. Twain.
“Pish,
posh, and fiddle faddle,” Mr. Brann chimed in.
When
The Legendary ventured to ask the reason for their consternation, Mr.
Twain tapped ash off his rum crook cheroot, took a long and
contemplative draw on the vile black thing, and blew a plume of smoke
at the chandelier, punctuating it with lazy rings which he broke with
an idle forefinger.
He
said, “See here, young man! It has come to me that you have
admitted in public forums that you are afflicted with the drinking
man's curse, that you are, in fact, impaired due to your excessive
tastes for all substances distilled, brewed or fermented – am I
correct?”
Assured
that this was indeed the case, he fixed me with a penetrating gaze,
and from under his tufted brows, he growled, “Doesn't show very
good judgment for a scribbler dedicated to chronicling the deeds of
judges, attorneys, elected officials and other errant souls of that
nature.”
“Hear,
hear,” said Mr. Brann from a wing chair partially obscured by the
shadows. “Never admit anything in the presence of those scalawags.
Ever.”
Thus
admonished, I deferred to their vast experience and superior wisdom,
plying them with my next question, the business of the precipitous
resignation of County Judge Jim Lewis, and the pledges of those
seeking to replace him.
They
both sneered, snorting at the mere mention that I would expect them
to be impressed by such an occurrence.
They
had seen it all before, they both concluded, in fact, had written the story
numerous times before.
As
to “the pledge”?
“They
have merely left their calling cards, old son,” declared Mr. Brann.
“'The pledge' is the sure sign of a fellow traveler of the ilk so
beguiled with their fitness to lead that they see themselves
important enough to utter such oaths.”
Quizzed on the fact that at least one candidate was a Democrat, and has now newly emerged as a Republican, they both ejaculated that most Victorian of expressions, simultaneously, "Pshaw!"
Quizzed on the fact that at least one candidate was a Democrat, and has now newly emerged as a Republican, they both ejaculated that most Victorian of expressions, simultaneously, "Pshaw!"
“Listen
when I tell you – and mark my words,” Mr. Twain said, “soon,
the time will come when some huge emergent circumstance will grip
your community, and all will be forgotten in the face of that
impending disaster. Your successful candidate will have forgotten all
he pledged, and your colleagues will move on to the next little
disaster – with all due aplomb.”
At
that, the two of them vanished in a haze of blue smoke, flying upward
through the rumble of thunder, distant and muted though it may have
been, as the chamber was plunged into utter darkness.
Our
hostess lit a single candle and showed her guests to the door, and we
all slipped away into the shadows of an early autumn evening,
avoiding eye contact.
-
The Legendary
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