Thurmond had died in the middle of 2003 but Mark continued working for him until January 2004, that's just how dedicated he was.
After that, he'd considered working for the CIA or NSA and even dabbled a little in the PTA. But none of it felt right. What did feel right was calling himself an "ex-Republican."
Trashing Republicans felt so good and made him so many friends. With a Shrub in the White House, the whole nation, the whole world, suffered from Butt Rot Tree disease.
And prog bloggers loved nothing better than to hold him up as one of their own. He'd trash Republicans with what they'd done and, hell, stretch the truth a little. Who cared, he had friends now.
And even though his political opinions hadn't changed all that much -- he'd mainly just grown embarrassed by George W. Bush -- he was embraced and feted, his most boring and obvious observations met with hearty chuckles. It was a good life.
The most difficult thing, being a Strom boy, was putting up with all the Clintonism. People saying Bush should be impeached for lying the country into war and pointing out that no one died when Bill had sex with Lewinsky. Or people applauding Hillary's efforts as a senator.
Mark Cranford was many things but he was no David Brock, no sir. There would be no rethinking the Clintons. He'd grudge f**k them to his grave.
Fortunately for Mark, a number of 'progressives' agreed with him. Some of these 'Democrats' were, like him, Republicans or former Republicans, others were closet Socialists or closet Communists -- many of the last two posed as Greens. And of course many shared Mark's blatant sexism. Working together they'd keep Hillary out of the White House.
Himself, Mark was leaning towards John Edwards. Something about the way many carried himself just screamed, "I know how to handle women."
But that all changed the night of April 22, 2007. He had parlayed the recovering, ex-Republican thing into a successful blog and then into a successful radio pundit gig (God bless, Rachel Maddow!) and then into a post at a news weekly where he wrote a column. He was on his way to gas bag infamy, everywhere he went he was hailed as "the new Cokie Roberts!"
Everywhere but this interstate where even his rising star couldn't help him when he had a flat. He pulled over to the side, got out and wondered what to do. Like many a 'manly man' with a sunken chest occupying the 'creative class,' he'd never done a lick of hard labor his entire life and certainly never changed a tire. He popped open the trunk and stared inside. Couldn't even see a jack. Didn't the damn car come with one?
He was in the midst of a stream of curses when he looked up.
Even he had to catch his breath as he saw a non-stop series of shooting stars.
Evident as they streamed past Vegan, the meteors originated at Comet Thatcher. These were neither space debris nor exploding stars. These were, in fact, space ships.
Every year, aliens rode them down with a mission. In some years, they focused on fine tuning the arts or fashion -- they spent most of the eighties fighting back against the use of the melodica and off-the-shoulder sweatshirts. In 1979, they'd focused on politics and installed one of them, Iron Lady Thatcher, as the ruler of a nation. In 2007, they were again focusing on politics.
Mark knew none of this, he just stared above at the sky where balls of fire seemed to stream across the night sky every few seconds. The longer he watched, the closer they seemed and he began to feel dizzy as they appeared to be landing all around him.
The embankment by the side of the interstate was full of fiery holes from where the meteors landed and streams of harsh, blue light appeared to emit from the holes.
Emerging from the holes were blindingly blue slugs, easily five foot tall.
One slithered near him, then around and around him.
"I'm cracking up," Mark told himself and then remembered all of Strom's warnings about how deviance was catchy and Strom's hypothesis that a casual handshake with Ted Kennedy had turned Michael Lind from fierce conservative into Frank Rich's Wet Dream.
The blue slug began circling Mark's feet, then moving up the ankles, then moving at blinding speed, round and round, expanding to cover a screaming Mark entirely, it emitted a low hum which did nothing to conceal Mark Cranford's wails and screams as bits of his flesh and bones began spitting out onto the surrounding pavement.
The spinning stopped and the slug stretched briefly to 20 feet in length before snapping back into a copy of Mark Cranford, albeit a blue glowing copy. A moment later, the blue glow disappeared.
Another slug slithered over.
"Yes," Mark or "Mark" said. "I have absorbed all of the humanoids memories and experiences. He met Sylvia Ford in March 2004, married her in June of that year. He works for . . ."
After the debriefing, "Mark" pulled the jack out from the trunk, jacked the car up and changed the tire while reviewing the plan to install Barack Obama into the White House. It would by Lyrid's finest moment since the Margaret Thatcher days.
Some people would have to die but some would only require an open mouthed kiss at which point an infection would be passed and it would be as they had been programmed by a cult. The Lyrids would occupy northern America through July 7, 2009 and then depart, using the Penumbral Lunar Eclipse as their cover.
