"You're going to lose the election, Mr. President," the young staffer said, then licked his lips. Only his confidence in his calculations kept him standing under the glare of the old white man.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" the President roared at the young man he'd never seen before. "What the fuck is he talking about?" he roared at his Chief of Staff standing slightly behind and to the right of the younger man. "Why is he wasting my time with this shit? Have you seen the polls?"

"I've read his entire report, Mr. President, and we've had top analysts from four different intelligence agencies double-check and triple-check everything, and everything he says checks out. I wouldn't have brought him to you otherwise," the Chief of Staff answered in his calmest, most reasonable voice.

"How can the polls be so wrong?" the President countered. "I have a 10-point lead over Buffon." Paul Buffon was the Republican nominee, a far Right ultra-nationalist.

"Not the Republicans, Mr. President," the young staffer piped up. At the old man's look of complete incomprehension, he added, "Brian Duffey."

Incomprehension morphed into incredulity. His nostrils flared - actually flared like a horse about to rear. "What the fuck are you talking about? Who's Brian Duffey?" The President thought a second and just as the young man was about to reply, said, "Wait a minute, isn't that Bill's worthless son?"

"William Duffey is his father," the Chief of Staff answered. "Brian has spent his life putting together a coherent theory of revolutionary social change, and he's putting it into practice. He's on the ballot in all states except Virginia, as an Independent in 26 states, and on the Green Party ticket in the other 23 --"

"The GREEN PARTY?!" the President snorted. "You're worried about the GREEN PARTY?!" He laughed, then shook his head and pointed his meaty index finger in his Chief of Staff's face. "You've lost your Goddamned mind, and so have your so-called 'top analysts.' No third party is going to win in this country, especially some unknown kid running with those loser Greens." He sat back with a belly chuckle, picked up his spectacles with one hand and a pen with the other and said with a dismissive wave of the pen, "Now get the hell out of my office so I can get back to work."

The young staffer started to object, but the Chief of Staff forestalled him with a barely perceptible shake of his head. He bustled the young man out of the Oval Office and down the corridor toward their offices. At an alcove, the Chief of Staff stopped and instructed the young staffer. "He's an idiot. Your analysis is solid. I want you to start putting together dossiers on Duffey and his inner circle and a plan of attack. Work with Brandon at Central [Intelligence Agency]." He ran his hand through his hair. "We have to be ready when that idiot wakes up and realizes you were right."

But maybe the President wasn't quite as much of an idiot as the Chief of Staff thought, because a few minutes after they left him, the President thought, "Alexa, call Bruce," and a few seconds later his oldest political friend materialized across the desk from him, where the young staffer had stood a few minutes ago. Appeared to materialize, that is, because it was an image projected onto his visual field by his smart contact lenses. The President was a bit too old to be trusting those new implants in his body, but the contacts gave him most of the functionality, especially with the military-intelligence upgrades available to him thanks to his position.

Bruce McGinty was the President's "fixer." Had been for decades. There was nothing McGinty had not done, or arranged to be done, to benefit the President's political career. "Mr. President!" he boomed with his normal lack of volume modulation. "How's Washington, D.C.?"

"Everyone's been telling me I'm guaranteed to be here another four years until just now I had my Chief of Staff and some snot-nosed math head in here telling me Bill Duffey's brat is going to win the election!" He let the apparent absurdity sink in then said more quietly, "I need you to look into it for me, Bruce. These kids aren't idiots. My Chief of Staff wouldn't have come into my office with this if there weren't something to it."

"Duffey?" McGinty asked with his eyebrows raised. "He's polling around 10% - less than your margin over Buffon." He shook his head. "I mean, ten percent is a lot for a third-party candidate and the younger generations are really pissed off, but still." He brought his eyes up and met the President's. "I'll get to the bottom of this. Don't you worry, Mr. President. I'll be calling you that for the next four years."