The office of the Democratic Party of Santa Mira, California was abuzz with activity as they prepared for the upcoming primary. Box after box of Hillary posters arrived each day and were filling both store rooms as well as the unused office that was previously occupied by the town’s party chairman. (He had suddenly disappeared last year – mysteriously – and, rumor has it, shortly after it was revealed he had strayed from orthodoxy and refused to make a required endorsement) They seemed to come from nowhere, as if they fell from space. But the posters never cluttered the office long. Also, from seemingly nowhere, people would show up and pick up the posters for distribution, and many of them would take as many as they could cram into their cars. Some would even walk down the street carrying three or four boxes, seemingly in a trance.

Dr. Saunders had been suspicious for a while, and especially after the former chairman disappeared. He had a distinct feeling something was going on. The poster pickers would leave in different directions, but they’d all circle around one way or the other and, oddly, all end up going the same way. Also, little by little, people seemed to be forgetting about policy and platforms, about voters and positions, and almost hypnotically focusing on clearing the way for “the anointed one” who would surely arrive soon from somewhere on high. Most recently, the staff had started continuously and even aggressively encouraging him to bring a few boxes of posters and follow them. He’d always nod and smile and say he’d do so soon. “You just go ahead and do your duty and I’ll be along sometime soon!” They appeared to be deaf, and he noticed a certain blankness, a generic sameness to them, almost as if they’d all come out of some kind of pod like peas, but he found that as long as he smiled and spoke softly, they’d go on their way.

Eventually, Dr. Saunders decided he’d have a look at these posters and try to figure out what was going on. Late one afternoon, after the last of a batch of poster pickers left, he locked the doors and turned off the lights. He put a sign on the door: “Challenging the Oligarchy. Back in 20 minutes. Please don’t go away!” He headed into the second store room and closed the door. He pulled one of the poster boxes off a pile and started to cut the tape. As he lifted the flaps and looked inside, he saw that rather than containing posters, it was a larger box, folded in on itself, kind of accordion like. He grabbed at the sides with the “H Arrow” and pulled it apart. It opened up to be about the size of a coffin, and had nothing in it at all – except – a small gob of deep red colored stuff, that looked kind of like chewed gum. It was about the size of one of those small superballs. He reached out to touch it, but, then thought better of it and pulled his hand back. He didn’t see the little pulse of light inside the gob. He folded the box back up and took it out front, closing the door behind him. He went back out to the door. By now there were more pod poster pickers at the door, some trying to see inside, and all of them looking confused and mildly suspicious. He took down the sign and opened the door, and they immediately flowed in and headed for the boxes, not seeming to notice the lights were still turned off. They grabbed their boxes and started out. Dr. Saunders grabbed his box and followed them.

He found a bandwagon outside with an open space and jumped on. They started driving. They made some left turns and circled a couple blocks, then turned back to the right and headed into a darker and more oppressive part of town, and finally pulled into a dreary place with a formerly ornate, but now rusted iron sign across the entry which proclaimed it the “Graveyard of the New Deal”. As the wagon headed up the rocky road into the graveyard, he saw there were crowds, masses even, of low information people. The hypnotized poster pickers were walking up to these people and showing them signs with the “H Arrow” and asking the people “Do you recognize any of these brands?” The people would usually point at the “H” and say “Yeah, I’ve heard of her. She’s great.” “Good” they’d say. “It’s your lucky day, because all you need to do is get in this box and the leader will be whatever you want her to be. She’ll do whatever you need her to do. She’ll tell Wall St. to knock it off. She just needs to borrow your image for a minute to remake herself in it.” The people would smile and say “Really?!?” They’d climb in the box and the picker would close the lid. Soon the box would open and a red pea-like pod would rise up. The person would emerge slowly and push off the pod like husks off an ear of corn. They’d have the same deaf, blank sameness he’d seen in the others. My GOD! They were taking these people and turning them into some kind of zombies, then sending them out to make more. Soon they’d take over the party and there would be no real Democrats left. The Doctor knew he had to do something quick, or the party would be lost. He jumped on an empty bandwagon and took off so fast the fucking “H Arrow” flew off the side. The now converted hordes didn’t see him leave. They were plodding towards a large fire in a clearing, staring blankly and droning “Warrenvp” or “Bernieshelpingtrump” like a mantra.

He went back to the office. He frantically pushed all the furniture and poster boxes into the center and was about to cover it all with gas and light it. But he realized that even if he berned down the office, it wouldn’t stop them all. He put his sign back on the door and locked it. He broke off the key in the lock. This would at least slow them down a little. He walked on, knowing his job wasn’t finished.