Inclement Weather: A Conceptual Short Story Collection

Kenny the Cowpoke for Guv (Continued)

At the afternoon press conference, Kenneth is in top form. 

He's smiling, relaxed, radiating confidence and the teeth-whitening treatment I suggested to him looks splendid in the viewfinders of the cameras. He blew 'em away at the Lion's Club, at a reception at the local Rotary Club this morning, and the current gaggle of media people packed into the hotel conference room he's wrangling like he's already governor.

It's me who's sweaty and fidgeting in the corner.

I have no idea when Dave is going to light the fuse on his bomb, but I'm guessing sooner rather than later.

Most of journalists are from hometown rags. They raise their hands and stand up like school kids to ask uninspired questions Kenneth's answered hundreds of time before, or long-winded ones about things of great local importance, that nobody in the capitol gives two hoots about.

Kenneth handles them all with bravado. He tilts his head to the side like he's giving them his full attention and gives answers in plain, straightforward English. No dollar-fifty words. No abstract concepts. Just like I made him stand in front of the mirror and practice. He's the picture of success and they like him. 

It's going very well, but I don't trust very well and continue to scan the crowd.

Almost towards the end of the conference, right when I'm starting to relax and think Dave might get us in the next city, I notice a few of the journalists pulling out their mobile devices and frowning. When the fifth one does the same thing, my stomach goes sour like I've swallowed a bucket of floor cleaner. Here it comes. Here it comes. . .

Kenneth's in the middle of some hooey about how he aims to radically improve rural route mail delivery, when a forest of hands shoot up all at once, waving for his attention. I can see how his forehead creases in slight irritation, and his smile slips just a fraction. He knows something's not quite right and there's nothing I can do.

I desperately want to fling myself forward and end the conference, but I can't. That would be a clear show of having something to hide. Kenneth apparently does have something to hide, but it's paramount nobody in this room catch on to that.

He's finished with the mail, and calls on the journalist closest to him.

 The journalist, a young man with a crooked brown tie, looks back and forth between Kenneth and his phone, making sure he's got the information correct. 

"What do you have to say to your rival's claims of juvenile sex offences?"

Juvenile sex offences? Kenneth?

Ken looks surprised. He blinks a few times. "Whose, his? I have no knowledge of that," he says, an apologetic smile spreading across his face, showing off the pearly whites. I feel ill. 

"No, yours."

"Mine?"

"Yes, what do you have to say to your rival's claims that you committed sexual offences in your youth that, and I quote, 'would shame and disgust any right-thinking person'?"

Kenneth stares at the guy. "I have no idea what he's talking about."

I know that stare. Ken, you lying bastard.

More hands go up, but they all want to ask him the same thing just with different wording. "Look, people." Ken waves his hands. "I have no idea what my esteemed rival is getting at or where he came up with such a claim. This is clearly a bid to torpedo my reputation. Sorry, but I won't be answering any more questions about this topic. Does anyone have a question concerning something else?"