The accent was curious, quaint, like an
ancient black-and-white movie hero who
rode a pinto and shot from the waist. But
this hero never rode a horse nor ever
fired a gun in his life. The action was by
mouth, in rapid-fire delivery, safely from
the speaker’s podium. “Now how th’ Heel
(he meant Hell) we gonna get are selves
baik in th’ dravah’s seat?”
Of course he clarified the question was
rhetorical and the accent disappeared.
He was a sham I guessed – but the rest
of the crowd gladly lent their ears.
He won by being something that appealed,
a creation of imagination, a figment from an
all too common theme.
Goddamn, I know I seen his granddaddy in
the movies back when – not the same name
but that was easily explained; no, what
concerned me was how playing the corrupt
character of a bounty hunter legitimised his
claim to be best running mate for President.
© 5 July 2007, I.D. Carswell