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The Fall of Curtis Claremount

PR man Carlos Black stood like a statue. One of the very best of his trade, Carlos can make any average Joe into an instant celebrity for a hefty price. Although he was wearing dark shades and a three-piece, $2,500 suit, and should have been attracting attention like horseflies on shit, Carlos was unusually inconspicuous. Normally, anyone who had anything to do with the future mayor of New York would have been surrounded by the media horde, especially one who is 6'2" and stood at 210 pounds. But somehow Carlos had and air of authority about him that told people "leave me alone" and people would willingly comply. Carlos knew that, and he played it to his full advantage. Posing as Mr. Claremount's bodyguard, he was able to follow Mr. Claremount around without alerting the media to his true purposes. His "hired guns" though, were not as fortunate. They had no excuses for following Curtis around so they were relished to spend their time communicating to Mr. Claremount via a nearby broadcasting van to a small radio receiver located in Mr. Claremount's ears. Carlos now stood in a corner of the dining hall a few feet from Mr. Claremount's table. They had specially requested the table because of its strategic location. People would not notice Carlos standing in the corner, but Carlos would still be close enough to detect and prevent any mistakes on Curtis' part.
Carlos felt an itch in his head, but he knew he could not scratch it. It would ruin his slicked-back hair, and that would look bad - for him, for Mr. Claremount. And being a PR man, that was exactly what he was paid to prevent.

This food reeks. I can't believe the things I'd do for a pop at being a stink'n mayor. 'Course, once I'm mayor, then I don't have to work no more. Politicians are all liars. The only difference between a good one and a bad apple is in the extent that one lies. The decent ones only manipulate the truth, while the assholes are downright con-artists. Me, I'm only somewhere in between. Not the best, but definitely not the worst. Anyway, this food reeks. I'm tired of eating seafood every time I go out. After a while the novelty of crabs, lobsters, and caviar wears out and now I'm sick of this food. Wonder where I can go to grab a burger or something. But I'd better pretend this crap actually tastes good. There's Carlos over there, the big buffoon standing in his corner. He thinks he's so tough, telling me what I can or can't do. I'll show him who's tough. Just wait 'till I get elected. Then I won't need him no more, nor the rest of those blood-sucking vampires he's brought with him. Oh Christ, my nose is itching like crazy. I'm gonna blow if I don't scratch it immediately!

"Oh shit!" Carlos thought, but not wanting to attract any more attention than necessary, he said nothing out loud.
Careful not to upset the balance of steadiness among the guests, Carlos nonetheless rushed as quickly as he could to Curtis' table. He reached out with his left arm and pulled the block of flesh that was jammed deep into Mr. Claremount's nostrils.
"No!" he stated quietly but firmly.
But by then it was already too late. The media horde had already surrounded the table and flashes of light indicated to Carlos the obvious - Mr. Claremount was caught in the act.

As seen on the Inside Story, September 6 :
"...was caught red-handed, or green-fingered. In the largest shocker since Watergate, Mr. Claremount was caught picking his nose during the benefit dinner last night. This horrific atrocity demonstrates the extent of corruption this city has fallen. Mr. Claremount was supposed to lead this city into salvation. He was believed to be a saviour to this city and the people placed their dreams upon his fingers. But last night, his true image manifested in front of thousands of witnesses. Mr. Claremount showed everyone what he thought of their dreams by shoving them into his nose. He displayed everything indecent and heinous about this culture, because although the simple act of jamming one's bodily parts into one's own opening in public may not seem very significant, but the implications of this abhorrent behaviour is unspeakable. If Mr. Mayor-in-waiting is capable of such an act in front of hundreds of people, who knows what other nefarious intentions may be concealed behind his angelic facade. This is clearly not the example we want to set for our children! Thus, obviously, he is not someone we would want to represent the state of New York. Apparently, after last night's horrific experience, New York is now reconsidering its previous stance towards Mr. Claremount. His ratings, for the first time, have registered a decrease, dropping a couple of points yesterday..."

You stare around the room. The future mayor(?) is sitting behind his well varnished oak desk. For antique furniture, it is extremely well kept and must have cost a fortune. Despite its age, the desk shines by the glow illuminating from the fluorescent lighting on the ceiling. A fluorescent lamp with an uneven stand rocks back and forth on the table, the desk shakes because Mr. Claremount is fuming and is hammering on the table. In his hand is a copy of the Inside Story. Mr. Claremount sits on his cosy Lazy Boy arm chair, although he certainly looks anything but cosy at the moment. Your gaze shifts from Mr. Claremount to Carlos. Carlos stand in the north west corner of the room, opposite to Mr. Claremount, who sits at the southern end, directly across from his door. Carlos has his own small desk in that corner, but he rarely ever uses it. Carlos believes in committing everything to memory instead of to paper, so he never has any paperwork. He has always claimed that he will never become a pencil-pushing, paper-pulling, office-desk geek and so far he's maintained that image quite well. Like Curtis' desk, Carlos' shades also shine in the light. Carlos always looks the same regardless of the situation, but even in his cool demeanours, you can sense his anger. Carlos is pissed; pissed at Curtis; pissed at the media; pissed at you. Now is not the time to talk. You notice that Mr. Claremount has relinquished his hold on the tabloid in his hands. He is now on his feet.
"What the hell am I paying you freaks for? You'd think that at these unreasonable prices, I'd get some quality results for my dollar. Get out of this hellhole and stop my slide if any of you value your jobs! Do something before I lose this election!" the man rants.
You wait for Carlos to respond. Right now there's nothing you can do. Boy do you feel helpless.

Carlos stared at Mr. Claremount's' bald forehead. Mr. Claremount had patches of hair on either side of his head, around his ears, but his top was clear as a desert, without as much as a stubble. He had a grandfatherly face about him, gentle and kind yet firm in his beliefs. He was slightly overweight, but it only added to his appearance of friendliness. Of course Carlos was buying none of that bullshit. He knew that Mr. Claremount was a cold, calculating man ever since he first laid eyes on him. Carlos spoke slowly, deliberately.
"Shut the fuck up, Mr. American Eagle. You dug yourself into this mess, so don't expect any of us to pull off a miracle. Restoring your credentials is already in the works, but I guarantee you nothing, you hear me, nothing!"

From Political Digest Magazine, September 15 :
"...he's ratings continue to drop. At only 40% now, he leads the race by less than 5%. But more important is the new accusations by former Penthouse Pet, Jill Shawntai,who now claims that she has had an affair with Mr. Claremount for the last five years. Considering that Mr. Claremount is supposed to be single and therefore cannot have an affair, this revelation now puts doubts on Mr. Claremount's shadowy past. If what Jill claims is true, that would indicate that Mr. Claremount is lying and probably has a spouse hidden somewhere where she cannot hurt his campaign. Current speculations include that she is an alien, she is insane, or she is linked to the mafia. This magazine prefers to subscribe to the alien theory but recent sources indicate that it is more likely she is affiliated with..."

"This is Sue-Ann Nivens,"
"And I'm Harold Rogers."
"And you are watching NYC News at seven."
"Tonight, the top story involves the declining fortune of Mr. Curtis Claremount. Once considered the top candidate for the mayor of New York, Mr. Claremount has now plummeted over 50% in the popular votes. Barely clinging to fourth in the running, his chances of winning this election look very bleak. But the biggest revelation today is not about Mr. Claremount directly, but instead concerns a waitress that was at the benefit dinner the night when Mr. Claremount displayed his true self.
"The waitress, Miss Elizabeth Kent, claims to have found the nose hair and nasal impurities that originated from Mr. Claremount. She claims to have discovered the items on the napkin Mr. Claremount used to dispose of his waste and collectors are now actively trying to convince Miss. Kent to auction off these priceless artifacts. Scientists at the Manhattan Institute of Research and Development are now trying to verify the validity of these discoveries by comparing DNA structures. Once these items are validated, Miss. Kent will make an announcement concerning her future plans for these articles.
"She has called a press conference scheduled for tomorrow at noon."

You are sitting on the couch, tired and disgusted. So far, nothing you've tried has helped Mr. Claremount. You have never seen Carlos so frustrated in the five years you've worked with him. The wife is watching the Home Shopping Network and its irritating monotone blares into the living room. You can never understand how she can watch that stuff but then again, you can never understand her either. Suddenly, something on the network catches your attention. It seems that the network is apparently selling Mr. Claremount's nose hair plus snot, sealed in a delicate plastic case, for $49.95. It appears that they have collected Mr. Claremount's nasal elements from his 43 years of existence and are now selling it as a collector's item. It comes with a certificate of authenticity and if you want a signature to go along with your collection you can pay another fifty bucks. You laugh to yourself. You know all of this is bull. Mr. Claremount would never endorse this garbage because he is being ruined by it. The things people will do for money never fails to astound you. You glance up at the clock. You decide to leave the house, the meeting will begin in fifteen minutes and you don't want to be late. Carlos has already told you that this is probably going be the last meeting. The seriousness of the situation leaves no room for tardiness.

Carlos pulled his fist away from the dry wall. White powdery flakes drifted from the hole he created onto the floor. The hole was not important though, because dry wall was cheap and could be easily replaced. But that was not the point. The point was Carlos was frustrated and raging mad. Nothing he tried has worked, He has tried the alien abduction theory, the KGB, FBI, and the CIA coverup conspiracy, the temporary insanity plea, he was even desperate enough to propose that the entire escapade was an elaborate hoax perpetrated by Curtis' competitors and that those people in the restaurant were neither him nor Mr. Claremount. But the media bought none of it. Covering up for JFK was even easier than this. True, he was part of the coverup when he was relatively young and inexperienced, but every one he came in contact with will admit that he was a natural when it came to this type of work. But this Mr. Claremount takes the cake. Never before had he had so much trouble in trying to pull up someone's credentials. Mr. Claremount was as good as fried, and Carlos knew it. Carlos sighed. He removed his Ray Bans and crushed it in his palms. Blood dripped from the shards of tinted glass in his hands slowly onto the ground. He released his grip on the glass and small pieces of the crystal sprinkled onto the tiled room, his image reflected from the pieces where the blood had not covered up his reflection. His eyes, blood red from a lack of sleep, glanced up onto the large, clock-size novelty Swatch watch hanging from the wall. The meeting with Mr. Claremount will commence in fifteen minutes. Carlos sighed again, left his room, and locked up.

"But why fuck'n me?" Curtis cried.
"I'm sorry mister, but you dug your own grave, now lie in it like a good man!" Carlos replied.
"But I only picked my nose, it was nothing spectacular." Curtis protested.
"Look man, you're busted. There's nothing any of us can do for you anymore! Let's go boys, I hear Mr. Travis is the leading candidate right now, maybe he can use a little help in his public relations department!" Carlos replied.
"You can't do this to me," Curtis raved, "I'm a powerful man! I'm paying your salaries! Don't leave me."
Curtis Claremount laid his head onto his office desk. The room was empty, silent except for the droning sound provided by the electricity going through the fluorescent light hanging from his ceiling. Tears flowed uncontrollably from his eyes.
"I'm ruined!" he cried, "I'm ruined."

* * * * * * * * * *

Across the street from where four men in suits step out of the office of Mr. Curtis Claremount, the very average Joe Blow treads slowly in the opposite direction of Carlos and his convoy. Wearing a Yankees cap and sporting a cheap shirt purchased at K-Mart, Joe Blow had just finished his work and is now on his way home to his wife and two kids. He has a metallic lunch box in his right hand but his left hand is unoccupied, making it perfect to use in removing the itch building up in his nostrils. He jams his long stick into his crater and begins repeating the process of pushing it deeper and deeper into the cavity. At first, there is considerable resistance. But after penetrating the initial blockade, a wet coating lines his instrument thus allowing smoother movement. After perhaps five minutes of the same procedure, he finally feels satisfied, so he removes his manliness away from the aperture. A slimy, sticky substance now covers his finger. Wanting rid of the substance he rolls it into a small green ball, and flicks it away into the general direction of the traffic. No one noticed.