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📖 Weekly Short Story
President Greenwald’s Man by Cory Swanson
The studio lights made Brian Greenwald sweat, as did the cameras pointed at him. His crisp, black suit felt uncomfortable as though it were a skin in need of molting.
“Some would say you’re a one-issue candidate,” Barbara Madson told him from the interviewer’s chair, a look of grave seriousness stretching her plastic surgery-tightened skin even tighter.
Brian glanced at The Man that stood behind him, a large and threatening figure in his own crisp, black suit. This man always stood behind him, assuring the world that Brian would fulfill his promise or pay the ultimate price. “I think you’ll see that I have no choice,” he said with a slight smirk.
“And what do you mean by that?” Madson asked, a pen pressed to her pursed lips.
“Well, not only am I passionate about climate change, I will literally be killed if I don’t fix it.”
“Well, not only am I passionate about climate change, I will literally be killed if I don’t fix it.”
The Man behind him shifted, his knuckles cracking as he clenched his hands.
Barbara Madson straightened as though suddenly aware of the large man’s presence. It wasn’t as though this man hadn’t been at every campaign stop of this grueling election cycle. He’d been next to Brian on every screen in the country, a permanent threat to remind everyone of what was at stake. It had been months and months, yet people still acted surprised.
The establishment was certainly uncomfortable with the concept, yet Brian had sailed through the primary season. Voters were the only ones that didn’t seem deterred, lining up in droves for the chance to elect the one candidate who had something real on the line.
“There are those who say climate change is a complex issue with many stakeholders,” Madson continued. “No one person or even one government can pretend to have the solutions.”
“That’s just excuse making,” Brian said, willing himself not to wipe the sweat off of his palms while on screen. “My life is at stake because all of our lives are at stake. We can’t pretend to have a future if we don’t solve this.”
“There are other issues to governance, Mr. Greenwald,” she said, leaning forward. “There are so many other problems that must be grappled with.”
“You’re not wrong. I have a whole platform.” The Man shifted, forcing Brian to refocus. “But the entirety of our government will be honed and focused on climate change.”
Madson paused, seeming to collect herself after a chill ran down her spine. Rifling her notes, she continued. “And what about those who deny climate change?”
“Let them deny it. I can’t change their minds. If I fail, I die and they can replace me. If I succeed, the world will literally be a better place and we can all enjoy the fruits of success.”
“But it’s such a complex issue,” Madson said. “It’s global. How can you expect to solve it? By what metrics will you be judged?”
Brian turned to The Man. He still didn’t know his name. Nobody did. He’d come to Brian one night with a threat and a promise, cornering him in a bar as he drank with his friends. Brian thought it was a joke at first, but the Man was too serious, too mysterious.
The FBI investigated the situation, but nothing came up. The Man was a ghost. Brian wouldn’t press charges. This was his ticket to the top and he knew it.
“It’s pretty easy, really,” he said to Barbara Madson. “If carbon emissions come down, we’ll stop having record heat. The west will stop burning. Snowpack will return to acceptable levels. Wildlife will stop dying. There’s so many things.”
“You can do that in four years?”
Brian looked up at The Man and shrugged. “I’d better.”
The last month of the campaign was chaos. There were debates and TV appearances and campaign stops that bled into one another in an endless stream. It was enough to break a man, but The Man dogged Brian at every step.
The night of the election, Brian ate a quiet dinner with his family as they waited for the returns to come in. The Man sat with them, eating like a horse.
“You’ve never told me about yourself,” Brian said to him.
The Man grunted over a mouthful of steak, but didn’t respond.
“Where are you from? Do you have a family?”
Brian’s wife put her hand on his arm. “Brian.”
“Things are looking good, dear,” he protested. “This might be a permanent state of affairs. We should get to know him.”
“I have no past and no future,” The Man said, stringing together more words than he had since the night Brian had met him. “There is only this, and it is our last, best hope.”
Brian’s two young daughters looked at The Man with an expression of awe on their faces. Brian’s pulse raised. The TV blinked and the states he’d won so far lit up with a blue tint. Brian lifted his glass of Zinfandel to his lips. His victory speech was already in his pocket. He hadn’t written a concession speech.
At this point, everyone knew what a concession would look like.
Fifty-eight percent. It was a modern landslide. Politicians for decades had fought to the teeth for a mere half-percent majority, but Brian Greenwald won by much more than that. The electoral map was painted blue, only the Deep South having held to their belief that climate change wasn’t real or that it couldn’t be solved.
The Man cracked his knuckles next to Brian during his victory speech. “I have a mandate,” Brian said, his voice strong, his lifelong ambition finally coming true. “You all know what I’ve been elected to do, and I intend to do it,” he said to a wave of applause.
The Man showed no sign of emotion as he stood next to Brian on the podium, a full six inches taller than the President-elect and at least as much larger around.
“This is no gimmick,” he continued when the crowd had quieted. “If I fail, I will lose everything, just as the rest of us will lose everything. It’s only fair.”
The transition period went smooth, giving way to Brian’s inauguration. The outgoing president joked many times in the process that at least he wasn’t going to die because of his failures. Brian laughed politely, but The Man behind him did not budge.
Brian assembled his administration with vigor, confident that the scientists and diplomats on his team would give him the best chance of success. No budget or foreign power was going to get in his way. “We all must suffer to end our suffering,” he told the world in his inaugural speech, the cold January air whipping at a wisp of his hair. “Our sacrifice will be mutual, but our reward will be our future.”
Energy infrastructure, foreign treaties, industrial regulations, city planning: nothing went untouched in those early days. If Brian ever strayed off subject, he felt The Man’s hand on his shoulder, the presence of this boulder of flesh never to be forgotten behind him.
Things did move over that time, just not very fast. Brian squirmed in his seat as Congress wavered and capitulated as it tried to pass his energy bill. Foreign governments mocked Brian’s fealty to The Man behind him, claiming they answered to no such threats.
Brian had to let it roll off his back. To be honest, he was starting to like the power. It gave him satisfaction and a certain sense of righteousness to wield such a focus. The nation had rallied around him, fighting harder than it had since perhaps the New Deal.
“I’m like Polk,” he told a reporter. “I’m here to get one thing done and then get out. But unlike Polk, I’m not going to start a war to do it.”
The truth was, though, he would have. Had it been necessary, heads would have rolled.
The opposition was steamrolled by Brian’s single-mindedness. No coalition or smear campaign could derail his juggernaut. Even in the most contrary of districts, their only path to reelection was to get on the train and fight for the fate of the world.
Brian stood on top of this pile and directed traffic. The richest country in the world now demanded change, and slowly but surely, change came.
The Man arrived in the Oval Office with a stack of papers at the beginning of Brian’s fourth year. “We must talk,” he said, his hulking form as ominous as ever.
Brian’s salt and pepper hair now leaning more toward salt, he rubbed his eyes, pretending that The Man didn’t intimidate him. “It’s a busy day,” he said. “I can pencil you in for about five minutes this afternoon, but the rest is just booked.”
The stack of papers hit his desk with a thump. “Don’t be a fool, Mr. President. This is of monumental importance.”
Brian took a deep breath. The demands of the job had addled his executive functions. He was tired. He was grumpy. “Okay,” he told the man. “Tell Mr. Lancaster to cancel my appointments.”
“It has already been done,” the Man said.
“All right,” Brian responded, unsure of how to proceed.
The Man opened the top page of the folio, the stack turned toward Brian, and pointed to a table of figures. “Carbon levels in the atmosphere haven’t budged,” he said, his voice even and matter-of-fact.
“Yes,” Brian said, already familiar with the data.
The Man proceeded to walk Brian through the tables and graphs. Stagnation permeated the report. Levels of all greenhouse gasses had remained stable throughout Brian’s tenure.
“But stagnation is progress, isn’t it?” Brian’s voice wavered, a sudden fear percolating in his throat. “I mean, for centuries, it did nothing but increase.”
“Record high temperatures are still being recorded throughout the world. Forests are burning. Ice is melting. People are suffering.”
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