Term Served

“You know,” mused Sid, “There’s bound to be some haters.”

His partner of three months nodded in agreement. “I know, I know,” Chaz lamented. “One thread gets picked up and the next thing you know, there’s a poll and — poof! — new president.”

“No doubt. Every voice must be heard and—”

Chaz finished the mantra. “Every opinion must be rated.”

The two laughed.

“Na, we’re good. We might even make it to the six month mark. A few more upvotes here and there—”

A splat echoed through the speakers, picked up clearly and distinctly by the podium microphones.

The speech stopped. The din quieted. Eyes, both physical and virtual, looked up from their textables and took note of what they saw.

The president stepped back slightly and glanced down at himself. He saw a deep red smudge in the middle of his shirt.

A near-explosion of keyboarding and texting.

“Oh hellz,” muttered Sid.

“There no spin on this,” agreed Chaz.

The president never knew a cherry pie could hurt that much. Perhaps it was the crust?

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