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“Oh, law and order! I often think it is that that is at
the bottom of all the misery in the World.” - Mrs. Alving,
Ghosts

---------------------------

The American government did something silly. You see, they
made a concession to the animal rights groups.

These folks had written to the US government, as they did
every year, outlining their demands for the improvement of
animal welfare in the country. The nearly fifty-page long
document included a short preface: “the end of arbitrary
pain, torture and death” was stated as the consolidated
groups’ main aim. This wasn’t a very original statement
- it didn’t impress - for over the past few years the
government had received countless (they weren’t counted)
letters and petitions concerning Iraq with the exact same
intent and wording.

Frankly, it was boring; and the official whose job it was to
handle such mail was already sliding the document
nonchalantly across his desk to the open-mouthed bin below,
when he came upon something strange, and funny. Hurriedly,
as if it were a guilty pleasure, he flicked back the pages
to the eye-catching words. “Demand no. 132: Animals should
have the right to vote and, if so inclined, form a political
party eligible for representation in presidential
elections.”

A merry groan sneezed from his throat; then a chuckle, a
snort; until he erupted in a series of caustic cackles. To
the transient but no less harrowing disappointment of his
pet waste-paper basket (lovingly named “Conscience”) he
pulled the document back from the fatal precipice and
decided to send it on - above, down, wherever it goes.
Either way, it arrived that day on the president’s desk,
who dutifully asked someone to inform him of its contents -
“gimme the jist!” To his advisor’s amazement, he
agreed to it, but only to no. 132, which had been
highlighted in yellow by our first-paragraph hero (not the
basket), who was a personal friend (as was the basket).

“See if they’ll take it!” He quipped, with a
meaningless smirk, the shallow afterglow of meaningless
words.

“But what about the elections, sir -”

“They’re -”

“This November!”

“Ya, I know when they are. They’re animals for god’s
sake! We’re…well we’re better than animals.”

“Not according to the latest polls.”

“Poles can’t vote in American elections!”

“Sir? I meant polls.”

“Stick an American flag up them poles, that’ll sort
em!” He chuckled, as if the solution were so obvious.

“Consider it done, sir.”

A vacuous pause. Outside, in the morning glaze of banana
sunshine, the Washington monument began to deflate; within
seconds its tip had drooped so far as to disturb the placid
water below - when suddenly the noise from its interim
masters pumped it erect and solid again.

“You are aware, now, sir, that the animals will be running
against you?”

“The animals!” He exclaimed with contempt.

Another scenery-shattering pause, wider ripples in the lake,
as the advisor took a note of confirmation.

“Say, what’s all that ruckus outside?”

“Well, sir, it seems a lot of people are rushing over to
the Washington monument and taking pictures. And it looks
like one of them has jumped into the lake.”

“The animals!”

The advisor stared at the president for a moment; his
careless words began to sink in, touching a nerve, jolting
safe and stagnant thoughts of the future.

“Animals,” he whispered.

“Sir,” he spoke up with urgency, “you could be
prescient! We’ve got to -”

“What’s with you and Polish?”

“Sir?”

“Anyway, I am prescient. A damn good one! And
Septeh...November won’t change that.”

***

Enough of that! I am forever grateful to my imagination for
undergoing such an ordeal as being present at one of those
meetings, and furnishing me the indispensable facts. Such
scenes are truly odious. Indeed, I fear my imaginative
faculties may have contracted something from the experience
- incurable - an ethereal from of bubonic plague, perhaps.
All of my creative imagery may in future now only consist of
streaky black blobs of spit-up blood and grotesque,
apple-sized boils. But that’s to come. Now this story can
progress.

It was soon after the White House decision was made public
that the animal rights groups themselves decided to take
action - after recovering from the shock, that is. Everyone
wanted desperately to take advantage of this momentous
declaration, yet nobody could think of a way. The demand was
a joke. It wasn’t even meant to be looked at, let alone
considered. Inevitably, once the fresh coat of surprise had
settled and dried, without a hopeful picture emerging,
disappointment crept back into their idealistic minds and
smothered this epidemic energy. They resigned themselves to
yet another fruitless year. Pens fell from hands, mouths,
ears; pamphlets were torn up; keyboards roughly slapped. The
head-office came to a halt.

But then one man, a new recruit, stepped up. Informing the
leaders of the inherent malleability of the average
animal’s political beliefs, a coalition was soon
established to ingratiate itself with the new party. It
would give life and momentum to this new political freedom -
which, of course, was certain to succeed. What animal would
not support animal rights?

Perhaps this fledgling activist, being still closer to the
gentile world of moral apathy he had so recently escaped,
kept a remnant of the view ordinary people take of the
beasts - the common, electoral view - where animals are
lower, naturally subject to the whim of humans. The hardened
leaders could only see them as souls - independent,
self-determining - so submerged were they in their fight.
But when this opportunity came about, it shook them, and
they seized it.

This man, our hero in fact, was christened Rudolf Randolf.
Young - twenty-five or so - docile, with a penchant for
crippling self-doubt (he was once recorded as saying: “It
doesn’t matter what I wear tonight, John; everything is so
stained with my personality that I wear the same repellent
shade every day.”), he had volunteered at PETA while
repeating his studies (for the fourth time!) at university.
Indeed, as soon as he had ventured his lowly epiphany on the
subject, and even as he was in the midst of a revived,
grateful office, dancing in a drunken orbit around his small
frame, he worried about what was going to happen. He worried
about what this meant for his beloved political system - for
democracy. He hated himself, and quickly tried to talk his
boss out of the move.

“What?” This man had fired back then, sternly, removing
his arms from the jubilant group’s grasp.

“No, no, Rudolf, that’s nonsense. Nonsense! I know you
don’t mean that!”

He caught hold of his protégé’s collar like he was a
pup and brought him over to a quiet corner. He squelched any
reply - “No, you don’t mean that” - and then planted
an overpowering silence between them, suffocating Rudolf
into premature capitulation. He stared down at the young
man.

“No,” he repeated softly, liltingly, a wily smile
creeping across his wrinkled face.

“You’re going to be head of the coalition! Yes! (He
poked him in the chest, stoking his enthusiasm) You are the
man! Heck, you’ve even got the name of an animal!”

“But -”

“Rudolf, the reindeer. Red nose?”

“Yes, I'm familiar with him. (Here his mentor, christened
Hugh Shambles, started to hum the eponymous tune) What about
the animals? Surely it’s their -”

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense! What’s with you and nonsense?
We’re doing what’s best for them. They know it. They
know it, son!”

He strode back, spinning a few empty chairs along the way
that vomited pamphlets across the floor, and announced it to
the group. The news spread quickly, got lost somewhere that
night during the celebrations, and was recovered, more
soberly, the next morning. The motion passed unanimously.

Rudolf’s misgivings remained, though; his conscience
stabbed at him and left cigarette burns of moral hypocrisy
searing with every breath he took. And yet he didn’t want
to complain or resign from PETA. He truly cared for animals;
and, finally, he reasoned: “What bad could come from a
good cause?”

It was at this time, however, that that faithful, incessant
moraliser, Conscience, made its voice heard in the minds of
the activists. As everyone knows, Conscience and Despair go
hand-in-hand; they corner their victim and, back and forth
between them, maul at his sanity like a punch bag. They
couldn’t just take over the whole thing. No; this
political emancipation was a right in itself and had to be
respected - at the very least by those who claimed to fight
for all animal rights. It was a Presidential decree: as such
it was an end in itself, not just a means. For more
information on this type of frustratingly progressive
ethical thinking, see Immanuel Kant.

While Conscience’s murmuring, no-nonsense castigation
certainly did take the sheen off the initiative; it in fact
only paralysed it. The leaders’ zeal was now unquenchable,
and soon their plans, reconstructed, could bravely limp on -
in the form of a coalition (yes, another one, but still the
same one) assigned to meet with the animals and form a fair
and equal compromise. Thus it was essentially the same
battered plan, only with crutches of euphemism. Rudolf,
still as reluctant leader, attended the meeting, located in
an undisclosed barnyard (the farmer wouldn’t tell me)
surrounded by acres of undulating, dew-scented pasture.

“Then it’s settled,” Shambles proclaimed to a
blank-faced cow. His voice echoed around the barn, resounded
in the hay-loft. The coalition members smugly shook hands
with each other, chattering happily, until a hand
outstretched to Rudolf grasped only empty, brooding air. The
latter was frowning, puzzled.

“What’s settled?” He asked.

Shambles turned around and, on seeing that familiar face,
sighed.

“What now, Rudi?”

His tone was a friendly, patient exasperation; he only
wanted - indeed, desperately wanted - to include his
protégé in the excitement of it all. And so, with an
undying twinkle in his eyes, he crunched across the layer of
fallen strands of hay between them and attempted to assuage
Rudolph’s innocent fears. He placed a hand on his small
shoulder and spoke with an awe that must have seeped into
his vocal cords from the fire in his eyes.

“Everything’s settled, Rudi! A compromise has been
arranged. Fair and equal and exciting. Trail-blazing even!
PETA will run the campaign; outline the policies for the
understanding of our fellow Americans, our fellow humans -
only logical, you’ll agree? The animals will run the
government. Are you worried about who will be President? No
need. They have already…elected a candidate, their
candidate, my friend, and, in exchange, you are to be
vice-president! How does that sound?”

Rudolf was stunned; his head fell under the weight of this
absurdity, shaking as if to wipe it clear. But it stuck, and
even affected his speech; his lips formed many words but,
clogged with incomprehension, only these dropped feebly out:

“Who’s their candidate?”

“The parrot.”

“What parrot?!”

“What parr…My God Rudi, you’re always finding
problems! We’ll find one! We’ll do whatever the animals
want.”

Rudolf looked away, arid gusts of laughter bursting from his
lungs like an old exhaust pipe. His indignation, it was
clear, had stalled as soon as it had started, and the
confrontation ended, with Shambles walking away and shaking
his head in disbelief. What was he to do with this kid? He
seemed to say to the other coalition members, and, more
importantly, to himself.

The group also began to disperse, following their leader.
With this movement, the cows became disturbed; some lowed
mournfully, shuffling around and interchanging places but
never really moving out of their huddled corner. Rudi
remained standing. He searched the bovine for their leader,
but couldn’t pick her out. Suddenly he realised he had
forgotten to ask the most obvious question.

“How did you talk with a cow?” He called despairingly to
the door.

Offended, Shambles shot a glance back through the closing
light and declared: “Animals are human beings too, ya
know!”

***

The first Presidential debate was about to begin. The
candidates’ platform was backlit in bright yellow, with an
orange tint draping the sides. It glowed amid the large grey
walls of the studio. An American flag hung from the rafters.
On walking up to their podiums, each contestant had saluted
it in their own unique way: the President nodded solemnly;
the parrot bolted from its handler and flew up towards it,
snagging itself on one of its myriad loose threads and
needing a ladder to retrieve it down. The flag remained as
it was.

The noise of the place was dispiriting. Hundreds of channel
employees moved to and fro, back and forth, with neck-held
mikes and headphones, talking to themselves, to invisible
persons, or to people walking beside them, equally invisible
under relentless waves of frosty instructions. The mass of
audience-members, divided into three main tributaries, now,
sluicing through the isles, contributed heavily to the aural
madness, too. Now and then, shouts erupting from across the
floor - so loud it flattened parts of the room into stunned
silence - disturbed the candidates’ concentration: the
president looked up whenever this occurred, and rolled his
eyes around, careful to avoid the houselights’ glare; the
parrot usually squawked.

In front of the platform, an island in this administrative
cauldron, the moderator glanced through his question cards,
above the make-up-drooling hands of his assistants, dabbing
at his plastic face. He sat at his desk in front of a ring
of slumbering black cameras besieging the stage. Both
candidates had similar appendages, assistants clinging
nervously to them, clawing at them. But, in this respect, it
was the parrot’s corner that was causing the most
commotion. A separate, non-scripted debate about the
position of the microphone had been underway for some time
now. It was the first thing the audience noticed when they
sat down.

Shambles had been politely berating a TV minion for
incompetence, and was now occupied in wrestling the little
black bulb to his side of the podium. The parrot flicked and
fluttered its head on its perch, meanwhile. His beak was
open in one inaudible, strained squawk, and its green body
tilted back and forth, up and down, with every angry gesture
launched across its line of vision.

“No, the microphone goes here, close to his beak!” spat
Shambles, through gritted teeth, snatching the thin
microphone cable from the intern’s hands.

“Sir! It is a bird! We can’t have any interruptions
while the President is speaking.” And the intern tugged it
back.

“Animals are candidates too, ya know!” Tug, tug.

And so on.

In the end Shambles won the battle because the intern had to
help remove a spider that had appeared on the
Commander-in-chief’s jacket. It wasn’t actually a
spider, but a loose thread. But by the time the kid had
found a scissors to cut off the evil cotton-worm, and shown
it to his president’s distrusting scrutiny, the debate had
started, places called, charade commenced. (Later, in the
car-park, Shambles beat this kid to a bloody pulp.)

Little did it matter to Rudolf that, in comparison to the
President, the parrot came off pretty well - informed,
succinct, reassuring - for it was a betrayal. They had
picked the parrot specifically because it could be fed with
human platitudes, clichés, and various other
concatenations of buzz-words. Animal rights were mentioned
incidentally, rarely. It was an animal in body, but no
longer in spirit.

And as the farcical debate wound to a close, Rudi looked on
from the side of the stage in horror, for he had to follow
it. He felt stupid, too, with his own debate notes wilting
in his sweaty hands. He had spent all night preparing them.
His head swam with the malformed ejaculation of his anger:
ideas and plans for revenge formed and disappeared in a hot,
throbbing haze. Coming to no conclusions, he, red as a
raspberry, threw away his notes and eagerly awaited his time
in the public eye. The Vice-Presidential debate was up next,
and he was determined to make the most of it - or at least,
of what *he* could make of the most of it.

You may ask: where was the Democratic candidate in all this?
You are right to ask, dear reader, and I am obliged to
answer, with what may at first be a surprising explanation.
The Democratic candidate has been here all along, appearing
(implicitly) in every paragraph. I do not blame you for not
noticing. Yes, he, or “it” I should say, was even in the
undisclosed barn - nestled within the forefingers of Hugh
Shambles, our own bestial Machiavelli. It wasn’t the
democratic candidate at that point, though; but only a month
later it won the Primaries.

The Democrats had elected a blue ball-point pen as their
candidate. It won the nomination in a closely-fought race
with another blue ball-point pen; while a red ball-point pen
had fallen only at the penultimate hurdle, regarded as too
ethnic, too soon. It also had no ties to the BIC corporation
- but that is, of course, mere speculation. Consequently,
much apathy greeted this election and the ultimate winner:
both candidates were commonly lampooned as “out of
touch”; “without enough ink or courage”; and, most
frequent of all, “each as bad as the other (but both
better than the President).”

And now, as Rudolf Randolf walked out before the cameras, to
take his place beside the Republican and current
vice-president in what was the most important moment of his
life, the Democratic candidate appeared, also. It travelled
in the left hand of Rudolf and was meant to be placed on a
miniature podium in between its colleagues. But, his heart
beating so fast and loud in his ears, added to the general
din of the audience’s applause, this well-rehearsed plan
had too much traffic to move through in Rudolf’s brain. It
was terribly late. While unfurling his now cylindrical
debate notes (which he had picked up again before being
called), he absent-mindedly put the pen in his mouth and
chewed on it, cracking its plastic skin and, after half a
minute of this nervous cannibalism, politely spitting the
fragments out into his handkerchief.

Gasps from the audience greeted this shocking behaviour, and
Shambles, looking on from the side, visored his eyes with
his hand in embarrassment, muttering, “take it out, you
idiot, take it out!” An ironic cheer, then, made him look
up and breathe a sigh of relief. “Good man, Rudi!” he
whispered, as he watched his protégé scuttle back from
the mini-podium and raise his hand in apology. The
moderator’s jacket-microphone turned itself on; “bloody
moron” exploded suddenly from the breathing and static,
and it received a burst of laughter that did just enough to
deflate the tension. Rudolf, however, was grimacing. On
returning to his podium, he seemed increasingly uncertain,
and began to look more closely at his notes.

Shambles was tempted to leave early, or pick another fight
with that impudent intern, so satisfied was he with the
parrot’s election-winning display. But, for sentimental
reasons, he remained to see Rudi, the “human” side of
the project. Yes, Rudi was incompetent, but, having reviewed
and amended his notes beforehand, he was sure nothing of
consequence could go wrong in his debate. At best, he would
add some finishing touches to the victory; at worst, nothing
at all. An animal supporter walked up beside Shambles, just
then. They looked at each other, understanding each other. A
fatherly smile even managed to bloom from the core of an
otherwise anxious expression on Shambles’ face. The first
question had been asked.

***

“I’ve told you!” Rudi shouted back to the moderator,
around the microphone’s formal sphere. “I have no plans
for that area of policy because animals can’t do
anything!” He put his lips back to the bulb again, for the
benefit of the audience; his voice was hoarse and fizzled
with frustration: “They are animals! They can’t do
anything! Don’t you understand?”

The audience remained quiet. Switching back and forth
between cards, the moderator hesitated to simply move on,
again, as he had done for the past ten minutes - for Rudi
had given similarly nonsensical and refreshingly frank
answers from the very start. And due to the brevity of these
replies, this man had a lot of air-time to fill.

“I see,” the moderator said. A thoughtful pause. “Do
you not talk with the animals?”

“No, I’m not Dr. Doolittle,” Rudi snapped back,
scowling.

“I see; and who is this Dr. Doolittle? The people have a
right to know. He sounds shady. Is he a communist?”

“What?”

At this point something distracted Rudi, out of the corner
of his eye. No, it wasn’t the republican, who was
thoroughly enjoying the show, smiling, arms folded,
embracing a tummy-full of rumbling laughter; but Shambles,
rather, who was motioning frantically to Rudi to stop what
he was doing, immediately! He threatened his protégé -
or at least that’s what Rudi thought - by pointing to
something at his feet. The proverbial grave? Tourist
sign-language for “You’re going down, mate!”? But
Rudi’s attention was soon brought back to the moderator,
pierced into submission by the latter’s fifth, screeching
- “excuse me, Mr. Rudolf!”

Rudi reaffixed his tie and posture, slotting his chest up
against the podium. “Randolf,” he corrected casually,
preparing himself for another onslaught of farce.

“No, we prefer to keep it to second names in these
debates, Mr. Rudolf. Now, another question for you. How
would your government react if an event like 9-11 occurred
again in this country?”

The audience held its breath (aside from the customary,
dramatically-insensitive coughers). The Republican, oozing
ease, took a delicious sip of water and looked on. Behind
him, just to the side, off camera, Shambles was readying his
fellow animal supporter for the worst. Growling could be
heard, even though there were no mikes offstage; then a
hasty readjustment of footsteps and whispering. The
republican even glanced back at this noise, leading a lot of
the front row’s heads with him. (These people would thus
be the first to escape).

Rudi heard this noise, too, but, having the better angle,
could also see what was making it: the fangs, with black,
merciless eyes above, to guide them all the way into the
flesh; the bristling fur. He knew what this meant:
Shambles’s eyes, now unspeakably fierce, explained what
the wolf’s couldn’t; gave intelligence to the latter’s
punitive jaws, as it tugged at the chain connecting its
convulsing body to the gritted fist of its political master.

“Mr. Rudolf?…err,” the moderator spotted another card
that seemed to save the situation.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Randolf. Mr. Randolf, could
you please answer the question? The people have a right -”

“Yes, yes, they do have a right…a right to know
everything.” Rudi composed himself, turned his chaotic
attention away from the republican and the wolf, the wolf
and the republican, and met the eyes of an audience member
in the back row, as he was taught to do in those expensive,
embarrassing elocution lessons. It’s amazing what flickers
through your mind when you’re about to jump off the fatal
precipice.

“Well,” he began; and a meaningful, sad smirk formed
along the young man’s mouth, sliding down handsomely from
a dimpled cheek.

“If something like that happened, they’d probably run
the other way. (gasp!) Animals tend to scare easily. God
knows what a big explosion like that would do to them. First
they’d be frozen solid, probably, not knowing what to do,
utter confusion. (gasp!) They’ll be told the details,
sure, but it wouldn’t have much effect (gasp!) - they’d
stay wide-eyed, staring off into the distance, and then look
desperately for a way to run (gasp!) (cough!) - even if they
were doing something else at that time, even if they were
with children. (gasp!!) They might even think it’s their
fault, and hide away from people, expecting to be beaten for
what has happened!”

A vulgar eruption of intuitive, fleeting applause came from
the darkened rear of the room, just as Rudi closed his
mouth. They obviously read their own agenda into his words.
But the majority rejected this response, instead shifting
uncomfortably in their seats, wishing only for the
performance they had expected and paid a great amount to
see. The atmosphere grew muggy with discontent. The
moderator could feel this, almost palpable behind him, its
icy outer layer grazing the back of his neck as it pulsed
with every agonising second it existed (on live
television!). Rudolf never looked at these reactions; his
ashen face darted to his left, awaiting his punishment.
Those glimmering fangs! With one outstretched, trembling
arm, he pushed himself a very long stride back from the
podium.

Meanwhile, the muttering presence receding, our moderator
prepared to refer the question back to the republican and
current vice-president, for some much-loved order and
fear-inducing tirade. But at that moment, Shambles released
his anger - released the wolf. The beast, however, on
rushing out onto the stage, heading straight for the young
malcontent, swerved its course and, obeying its instinct for
attacking the weaker target, unleashed itself on the rabid
republican with a hurtling bound. Hurled to the floor, the
vice-president screamed and thrashed about, knocking his
podium onto the mini-podium in the centre of the stage.
Ladies in the front row screamed. While Shambles and his
PETA cohorts shouted orders of vain human logic at the wolf,
careful not to come too close to its blood-clogged maw and
unpredictable gorging-jerks and shimmies, Democratic
bodyguards rushed from the isles to the front of the room,
pushing past those fleeing early, to attend their fallen
candidate.

It didn’t look good. One man brought out a piece of paper,
another rang the stationers. The former used the pen
carefully at first, but soon after observing no ink of life
apparent, began to scratch frantically, creating whirlwinds
of perforated, lifeless marks on the white page; soon
spinning off the edge, uncoiling in despairing slashes that
cut through the paper itself. The man was crying by this
point; all seemed lost, and his wrist had gone limp. Another
took over, guiding the first into the arms of a sympathetic
onlooker, and tried CPR: he licked the top of the pen, an
old trick. A faint blue could be seen on his first attempt;
the onlookers pressed in - but the ink soon grew fainter and
fainter. Some people begged him, through hand-covered
mouths, to stop. But he licked it again - and a healthy blue
returned! The fresh lines stuttered at first, but this was
due only to the older pen-marks hindering its path.
Resuscitation was complete, and the pen taken away. The
group sent around to each other solemn glances of happiness.

“Oh,” one man exclaimed with a hint of cheerful
surprise, as he slid something out from his pocket. “I had
a pen all along. And it’s brand new.”

“We’ll use that instead,” another said.

Meanwhile, a stream of crimson blood, slowed down by the
carpet, had drooled across the paper. And above, at its
source, a limp arm hung over the platform edge.

The vice-president was dead; the wolf shot; Shambles
somewhere in the parking lot. Meanwhile, Rudolf had run off,
temporarily insane, a jabbering idiot.

***

Some months after the election, Rudolf was back on his feet;
in fact, he was walking by The White House. He stopped and
looked at it through the gates. Geese marched through the
gardens, flecking the sun-drenched green with waddling
white; a horse grazed under a tree, deep in shadow. Bees
zoomed by in clouds, breaking apart here and there and
hovering over the red rose-bushes, and then moving on in a
progressively fainter hum. Directly beneath the white
balcony, a senate of swine - their grunts audible even from
Rudi’s position - could be seen tumbling over each other
at the trough.

“What a joke,” an old man said confidentially, standing
beside him. He coughed a world-weary laugh, was about to
move away, when Rudolf caught his jacket.

“What’s a joke?”

“This government!”

“Who did you vote for?”

“Why, the animals of course.”

Rudolf let the jacket slip and turned away. He sniffed. He
mocked, now, his attempt at nation-wide sabotage. Clearly
nobody had heard a word he said; clearly nobody cared. They
liked what was popular - that was all.

The old man, perceiving he had obviously been misjudged,
spoke up proudly.

“Young man, I knew exactly what I was voting for.” At
that moment a parrot landed atop the gate, above the two
men. It tap-danced on the steel bar, as it found its balance
against the gust of wind swaying the trees, until it had
side-stepped its way above our young hero’s head. Rudi
looked up; the man continued.

“Listen. I - we knew the animals couldn’t do anything.
That’s why we voted for them!”

Rudi stared hard at this man, noticed, now, intelligence in
his expression, significance in his smile.

“You mean; you voted for a bad government on purpose?”

“Not bad, son,” he pointed to the scene in front of
them; “ineffective! We’re tired of what politicians do
with the power we give them, so we’ve given it to those
who can’t use it!”

Rudolf walked away feeling strangely happy. No, his rational
self told him, this man was not representative of all who
voted - he could not be. The whole process as one
nationwide, ironic joke? But, instinctively, Rudi understood
it - not as a politician, but as a human being. It wasn’t
a success for animal rights, that’s for sure, but it
certainly was for human rights. The animals, after all, had
worked for human rights; beasts had shaken from the muddy
stream, golden specks of human dignity.

The parrot perched on Rudolf’s shoulder, flapped down
awkwardly and scratched his ear.

Rudi steered his eyes hard to their utmost left, to see the
curious bird. Yes, he thought: the President or the parrot.
What did it matter?