"My friend," said Shelby Kincaid as he poured a mug of steaming coffee. "I don't know whether your testicles just got real big or your brain got real small." 

He carried his cup across the break room, set it down on a table, and took a chair. Beneath unruly blond hair and striking gullwing eyebrows, his blue-gray eyes fastened on the man seated across from him.

Randy Stevenson's dark eyes returned Shelby's gaze. His face, displaying characteristic reserve and surrounded with shaggy black hair, betrayed not a hint of mirth. "Keller's more than a tax-and-spend liberal. He's a leftist, a socialist. Somebody's got to challenge him."

"Not you." Shelby took a careful slurp of coffee. "His political machine will tear you to pieces. And the public at large will help 'em."

Randy shrugged. "I got thick skin."

"No, what you've got is crap for brains. Now, listen. You're one of the Verona Three. They'll dig up everything they can about that and smear you with it from coast to coast. You've seen how politics works. The whole story doesn't come out until after the damage is done. You're also a Southern Baptist.  That makes you a sexist, a racist and a homophobe." 

Shelby went completely still as realization sprang into his eyes, followed quickly by alarm. "And it's horrifying, what they'd do to Claire and Denise. Have you thought about that?"

The back door opened, briefly admitting the sound of morning traffic, a burst of bright, winter sunshine and a chilly draft. John Mark Jordan stepped inside and traded greetings with the other two as he got coffee for himself and brought it to the table, his netbook under his arm. His remarkably handsome face and stylish apparel often led people to mistake him for a client of a nearby modeling agency.

"What's going on?" The question was rhetorical because he didn't wait for an answer before opening the netbook to skim the business section of the Jacksonville Post Herald.

Shelby aimed a thumb across the table. "Brilliant here says he's thinking of running for Congress."

John Mark's head snapped up. His brown eyes, wide with astonishment, fastened on Randy. "Have you gone crazy?"

Randy lifted his chin. "How many times have we sat at this table handwringin' about the future our children will have to live in? How many times have we said something has to be done? Well, I'm gonna do something. I don't know if it'll help, whether it'll be too little too late, whether I'm even capable of doing it--but I have to try."

John Mark remained incredulous, his netbook forgotten. "You'll get slaughtered. There's a zillion things they'll attack you for. Without mercy."

"Don't try to tell him anything," Shelby muttered. "I've already tried. He says his skin's thick." 

Randy raked a thumbnail across his lips and considered the other two. Their opinions and advice were crucial to him. They were not only his business partners; they were also his best friends, going back to grade school. For over two decades, the three of them had been closer than brothers. 

"I know what's in my life better than they do. Whatever they attack me with, we'll preempt them with highly crafted press releases, get the message out with a dynamite web site, produce online videos so powerful they'll go viral. I'd still have to raise an obscene amount of money to afford ads in the traditional media, but the three of us could pull it off. Turn it all to my advantage. I know we could."

Silence filled the room as his friends stared at him, the import of his words sinking in.

John Mark murmured, "How does Claire feel about this?" 

"Totally supportive. We've talked about it, imagined worst-case scenarios, incuding violence against us, although we aren't paranoid enough to think it would come to that. She has realistic expectations and she's looking forward to the challenge. But her main concern is the next generation and what they'll have to live with if things don't change."

The men's expressions grew pensive. They'd discussed numerous times the grim world that awaited their children--all children--in the foreseeable future. Now they were looking at an opportunity to do something about it on a national scale--or, at least, to try--and it was both sobering and exhilarating. 

Randy gave his companions an appraising look. Their demeanor had gradually changed as he spoke, and he could see their resistance weakening. 

"You realize that both of you will be dragged through the mud, too, especially if you help with the campaign. And you have your own families to think of." 

John Mark grunted. "Are you kidding? If you do this, Ainsley'll be your biggest cheerleader." 

Randy's eyes crinkled with the beginning of a smile at the thought of Ainsley--John Mark's wife and Shelby's sister--but only for a moment.  He wanted all considerations out in the open. "One other thing. A political campaign will take us away from the company for months." 

"That's not an insurmountable problem." Shelby pushed his mug aside and leaned back. "We can work that out." 

Conversation again paused. This time, they felt an undercurrent of excitement vibrating through the silence. 

"I'm driving down to Saint Augustine after work to talk to Missy and Tommy," Randy said. "Saturday, I'll take the family to Verona to discuss it with Mama and Daddy. If nobody can give me a powerfully good reason for not doing it, I'll announce my candidacy in mid-January." He looked at each one for a couple of seconds..  "I want you two with me in this."

John Mark gave his earlobe a tug.  "Well, you know we can't let you do this by yourself, so you've got us."

Shelby nodded.  "Unless we can talk you out of it."

Mirth finally sparked in Randy's eyes.  "You got two months.  Start talking."

Excerpt 2

The Terrace Shopping Center had been built in the early 1960s to house busy retail shops, five of them in an L-shaped structure wrapped around a concrete parking lot.  Almost fifty years later, the complex of flat-roofed, glass fronted units, renamed Terrace Plaza, served as offices for low-traffic tenants.

That would be a boon for the newest tenant, who would need more parking spaces than the other four combined.

Ramona Dorst, a freelance political dirt-digger, noticed things like that and her powers of observation were on high alert when she turned into the parking lot at Terrace Plaza. There were more vehicles parked here today than there had been in months, possibly years.

She purposely parked as far distant from the building as possible. The press pass on her dashboard, like the badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck, was as phony as a three dollar bill. Fortunately, nobody ever noticed that because she always parked far away from the action she was to observe, and her personal badge had been legitimate once.

A wide concrete sidewalk ran in front of the plate glass storefronts, separated from the curb by a strip of struggling grass. The metal canopy above it was a fortuitous element for the twenty five or thirty people gathered on the walkway, as the sky was overcast and intermittent drizzle had occurred throughout the day. Sporting jackets and sweaters against the 40-degree chill, they stood in front of the middle office on the long ell, between a transcription service and a mortgage broker. Along with purses and umbrellas, they carried candidate yard signs and American flags.

At the edge of the sidewalk, facing the parking lot, stood a boxy wooden podium draped with political bunting. Red and white mums in pots wrapped with blue foil sat at the base of the podium. Above, fastened to the edge of the sidewalk canopy, a ten-foot banner proclaimed the candidate's name and the the office he pursued.

The choice of a location for campaign headquarters could tell things about a candidate -- how much money he or she had and how well he gauged public perception. Randy Stevenson was a political newcomer and thus a totally unknown entity. What this very short, preliminary observation of his campaign headquarters told Ramona was that the had more style than money, perhaps even a touch of chichi. But in the end, style didn't win elections.

Stevenson had blanketed the 4th district with notices of his announcement. Every media outlet -- online, cable, broadcast and print -- as well as government officials at all levels and the Republican party machine had received them. Ramona learned this little tidbit of information from an acquaintance who worked at Republican party headquarters.

Apparently, the notices had generated little interest in the event. Representatives of the fourth estate were gathering under a canvas shelter set up in the parking lot, but they amounted to no more than a six, maybe eight, people.

The Fox affiliate, WAWS-TV, had sent a minimal crew. A couple of dudes from a low-power Christian radio station were on hand and several local print publications were represented by reporters with digital cameras and sound recorders. Surprisingly, Jacksonville's newspaper of record, the Post Herald, had sent a reporter, an ambitious female newbie Ramona had met briefly several weeks before.

There had been no rain since Ramona arrived, but she looped the strap of an umbrella around her wrist, hitched her purse over her shoulder, and took her video camera, already wrapped in its rain protector, in hand. She stepped between vehicles slick with mist to join the meager press corps setting up beneath the canvas shelter. She didn't have to set up. Her expensive digital camera with a highly sensitive directional microphone, required only that she look through the viewfinder and press the record button.

A young woman with a candidate pin on her lapel stood in a corner of the shelter and distributed pocket folders to media reps as they arrived.  Press kits, no doubt. Ramona slid the one she was given into her oversized purse for later perusal. Right now, while she waited with an eye on the office door flanked with U.S. and Florida flags, she wanted to get some footage of the people gathered on the sidewalk. She raised the camera to her eye and pressed record.

There were several preschool children, bored and twitchy but reasonably well behaved. Perhaps half a dozen or so of the adults were of retirement age, the rest in their thirties and forties. They seemed evenly divided between men and women.

Ramona couldn't help but notice that it was a very white gathering. She spotted a couple of women who could possibly be Hispanic, and a lone black man in suit and tie who apparently knew these people personally and was comfortable with them, but that was it for diversity and inclusion among Stevenson supporters.

At three on the dot, the door opened.   A couple of thirty-something men stepped out and she got excellent footage of their arrival on the scene. One of them, dark haired and uncommonly good-looking, was stylishly dressed in a brown tweed suit and a tan raincoat that reached the middle of his calves. The other, whose loosely curled blond hair seemed somewhat frizzled by the humidity, sported more casual attire -- bone-colored chinos and a russet corduroy blazer.  Candidate buttons adorned their lapels.

Their identity was unknown to Ramona and she had little time to study them further because they were followed immediately by a man and woman who had to be Mr and Mrs. Candidate, judging by the cheers and clapping from the crowd.

Randy Stevenson was both courtly and foxy in a charcoal gray suit, maroon tie and white shirt. His black hair was a bit long, a bit touseled -- perhaps that's where the foxy element came from. That and his broad shoulders and taut, slender physique. Ramona resisted the urge to use the hackneyed description, charismatic, after seeing him only a few seconds. Nevertheless, he projected an indefinable magnetism that couldn't be denied.

Beside him, clad in a classic suit of midnight blue, his wife, while not beautiful, nevertheless projected a similar aura of visual appeal. Ramona looked forward to studying the footage she was shooting to deconstruct the Stevensons' powerful attractiveness.

Instead of stepping to the podium, Stevenson gradually made his way down the crowd, pausing to talk or shake hands, accept hugs and peck female cheeks. At one point, he shared a manly embrace with a handsome gentleman, dark haired but graying at the temples, and traded kisses with a woman standing beside him. Their behavior said parents and son, as their appearance did.

He bent slightly to heft into his arms a little girl with long black hair, her forehead covered with a thick fringe of bangs. She laughed as he spoke to her while walking to the podium, where he set her on her feet, and The Wife took her hand. They stood slightly behind the candidate to his right and when Mrs. Stevenson turned to the side, Ramona realized that she was pregnant and just beginning to show.

The two men who had come out with the candidate stood to his left, speaking to each other in tones too low to carry to anyone else. Somehow, they managed to convey both smugness and excitement, but there was a hint of attitude about their expressions and demeanor when they looked over the press corps, such as it was. Protection, Ramona guessed. Even political nobodies insisted on security these days. She wondered if they had firearms stashed beneath their coats. Probably.

At the podium, Stevenson cut his eyes to them and they returned his look. Not a word was spoken, but communication nevertheless took place, no doubt about it. Significant communication. More than security, then. More than hirelings or acquaintances or campaign volunteers. These two would bear looking into.

In the viewfinder, the candidate's eyes swept the press representatives before him but if he was disappointed by the paltry attendance, he didn't show it. Resting his hands on edges of the podium, he said, "Thank you for coming out. My name is Randy Stevenson, and I'm here to announce my candidacy for the U.S. House of Representatives, Florida District Four."

Applause rose up from the gathering behind him.

"I have never held or run for office. I'm running now because our federal government is out of control...."

His spoke with a classic Southern accent -- the type Hollywood actors sought to emulate, usually with little success. That marked him as an outsider in Jacksonville, where speech patterns were highly influenced by Navy personnel and retirees from elsewhere, and northern transplants. His was the dialect of the coastal plain.

A low-end sound system comprising a microphone on a stand atop the lectern, a hidden amplifier and small speakers tucked among the mums, was sufficient to carry his voice to the press tent. The volume of his mid-range timbre suggested he was soft-spoken most of the time, but Ramona suspected he'd have no problem projecting without the amplification. He was not a novice at public speaking.

Even as she appreciated the way Stevenson spoke, behind her camera, Ramona rolled her eyes at what he was saying. Standard Republican stuff -- government too big, out of control, jeopardizing the people's liberty, too much taxing, too much spending, mortgaging our children's future...

Nope, there were no surprises in what he said, but Ramona was struck by one thing. The sincerity -- the conviction -- with which he said them. Maybe he was green enough to be a true believer. If so, he'd find out soon enough about the reality of politics.

Excerpt 3

In her apartment that night, Ramona made hot chocolate and took it to her desk.  Her sugar daddy, a distribution logistician, was on the other side of the planet, raking in the dough.  She wished him well -- his money kept her from having to work at a real job when the proceeds from political dirt-digging were meager.

And it looked like that was how this election cycle would turn out.  Edwina Granger, the GOP front runner, and the unsuccessful challenger of Lloyd Keller in the last three elections, would happily pay good money for good information, when it was necessary. But it didn't look necessary right now. Her Republican opponents, Bill Yeager and Andrea Blair, were well-known qantities.  Had been for a long time.  Ramona doubted there had been anything new to dig up on them in ten years. 

On the Democrat side, the incumbent, Lloyd Keller, was running unopposed. Nobody on that front to dig for dirt on.

That left Stevenson.

She had burned to DVD the launch she had recorded earlier, and had given it a preliminary viewing. She also had the pocket folder given to her at the announcement, and she opened it now.  A single page fact sheet on Stevenson yielded that  he was thirty-two years old, born in Atlanta on February 9, 1976 but had lived in Verona, Georgia from the age of two.

Verona.  Thirty-thousand people, a manufacturing and shipping center, home of a small state university. Beyond that, she didn't know much about the place.

Stevenson had attended public schools in Yancey County, completing high shcool in 1993. He graduated from Florida State in 1997 and Murchison Law School in Jacksonville in 2002.  He passed the bar but did not enter practice.  Instead, he was an owner, along with Shelby Kincaid and John Mark Jordan, of System Solutions, a small IT firm, in Jacksonville.

Kincaid and Jordan. The two guys with him at the announcement? She would have to find out -- and see if there was anything interesting in their backgrounds, too.

Stevenson lived in Tyrone, a small town of perhaps 2,500 people an hour west of Jacksonville, just north of Interstate 10. He was a member of the Tyrone Baptist Church -- which may or may not be significant, politically.  He had done pro bono legal work for several organizations, the most interesting of which was Exoneration Taskforce, a group that used DNA evidence to free men who had been wrongly imprisoned, usually for murder or rape.

The folder also contained a palm card with the candidate's likeness and platform, which read like standard GOP stuff -- fiscal responsibility, private sector job creation, national defense, energy, illegal immigration, second amendment rights. 

Right now, she was more interested in what the Internet might tell her.

She started her web search with his name, Randy Stevenson, and got over four million hits. Patiently, she modified her search criteria time after time, now and then gleaning crumbs of information about the Randy Stevenson she was interested in.

Two hours later, she powered down her machine and stood up, her stomach so knotted with excitement she felt slightly nauseated.

As long as Granger considered Stevenson no threat, it wouldn't matter what Ramona dug up on him.

That wasn't the case with Jacksonville's worst -- or best -- progressive political blog the ProgBloggers.  They were anonymous to most people, their blog a cesspool of political filth, concentrated on, but by no means limited to, Jacksonville and Florida.  They had relentlessly trashed President Bush and Vice President Dick Cheney on a raft of issues. In fact, they loved trashing Bush so much, Ramona wondered whether they'd have withdrawal when he left office a year from now.

But D.C. has-beens were not her concern right now.  If the hints she'd found on the internet were even partly indicative of fact, Stevenson would be extraordinary fodder for progressive and leftist bloggers and politicos from coast to coast and border to border.  And a pot of gold for her.

But the timing would have to be right.  Stevenson would have to develop some following, get some money, at least look like he could become a threat.  Nobody would pay good money for dirt on a political nobody, so she would have to give his campaign time, see what it would do.  And she could continue dig in the meantime. She had nothing else to do and it would be interesting to see if this small pot of gold turned in to a large and richly seamed gold mine.

 * * *

The two men seated in a secluded corner booth at Barrett's Hometown Grill made small talk until the waitress brought their food. It was mid-afternoon and the lunch crowd had cleared out. 

The older man, in his mid-fifties -- portly, dark-haired, suited and tied --  inspected his lunch plate through black-framed glasses.  He was Lloyd Keller, the sitting Congressman for Florida's fourth district, in his third term.  He was determined that at the end of the campaign season heating up, he would serve a fourth.

The younger man, the Congressman's mole planted in the campaign staff of his opposition, Republican Edwina Granger, was more casually dressed in sport slacks and an oxford shirt open at the throat.  His summer buzz cut had grown out, and beneath his short brown hair, his eyes moved restlessly about the cafe, returning now and then to the entrance. 

The Congressman sawed into a thick slab of roast beef, took a bite and raised his brows in surprise.  "Better than it looks. You expecting somebody, Farin?"

Brett Farin made no attempt to disguise his discomfort.  "Lotta new volunteers at the campaign office. Kids. I don't know where they live or hang out. They're not likely to come here, but it don't hurt to be careful."

"So what have you got to tell me?"

"Granger's got information on the new entrant, Stevenson. Thought I'd pass it along to you. I assume you've seen this."

Farin took a netbook from the seat bside him, powered it on and set it to the side of the table.  In moments, the screen displayed video footage of Randy Stevenson's announcement from a week before.

"Yeah. For a newcomer he sure sounds like a Republican broken record -- tax and spend, feds out of control... So what'd you find out about thim?"

"Nobody ever heard of him before he announced so we had to do some digging. Never been politically involved much.  He's made a few modest donations, mostly to local GOP candidates and that seems the extent of it. He's a young guy, early thirties, so we figure he's running just to get his name known for some future efforts."

"Is that Granger's take?"

"Yeah.  She's not concerned about him. She just had us snoop around a little as a precaution."

"What'd you find out?"

"Graduated from Florida State, got his law degree here at Murchison.  Partner in a small IT firm located across town in the Pine Hill area. Married, one preschool age daughter. Lives in Tyrone. Member of the Tyrone Baptist Church."

The Congressman looked at him as silence lengthened. "And?"

"And what?"

"That's all?" 

"Well, he only announced last week.  Let's see...  If he has money people, we don't know who they are, but it looks like nobody's bankrolling him.  The Republican party sure isn't.  They're in Edwina's back pocket, like always.  He's started a petition drive to get on the ballot."

"A sure sign he has no money," the Congressman murmured. 

"Apparently his business partners put up the funds for the first batch of yard signs, campaign stationary, palm cards and stuff and he worked out of his home for a couple of months before he announced. But it's too far away for volunteers to drive to and there's no extra space in his home, so they had to incur the expense of renting space for campaign headquarters. Pretty unusual for a campaign that new, especially for an unknown candidate. It's in a small, older shopping center that's now mainly offices, also in Pine Hills, maybe half a mile from the IT place. Apparently he and his partners are going to work the business while campaigning.  His partners are also campaign co-managers." 

"Who are they?"

"John Mark Jordan is the sales and PR guy for both the company and the campaign, also campaign treasurer. Shelby Kincaid runs the technical end of it and he'll do the same for Stevenson.  He's also the communications guy. Stevenson being a lawyer, he'll presumably develop, or has already developed, policy and will do compliance and legal stuff. Jordan's wife is his scheduler.The volunteer coordinator is Kincaid's wife, both unpaid."

"Keeping it in the family, huh.  All signs of no money. What else?"

"That's about it."

"And you haven't tried to find out more about him? Haven't looked to see if there's any dirt to dig up?"

"Edwina hasn't told us to.  I think she's tempted to write him off as an obscure newb."

"Don't you believe that for a minute.  She's much too shrewd to write off an unknown quantity like that.  And in any case, I'm not writing him off until I know more. Find out everything you can and get back to me."

"It'll look suspicious if I go snooping around until Edwina shows some interest."

Keller rolled his eyes.  "Or it might make you look like an ambitious campaign staffer going the extra mile for your candidate.  If you're concerned about that, get somebody else to do it. I want to know everything there is to know about this newcomer."

"Yes, sir."

Excerpt 4

Thirty minutes into the forum, a hardfaced woman stepped to the floor microphone and said, "This is for Candidate Stevenson."

Randy nodded acknowledgement.

"I've read your website," the woman said, "and your campaign literature and I've found nothing about your stand on reproductive freedom for women. As important as that is in our culture, do you have a stand on it? Most ultra-Republicans do."

Randy scribbled quickly on the legal pad in front of him, his silver pen glinting in the stage lights. He looked up mildly and said, "I assume you are talking about the legality of abortion on demand? There's nothing about it in my campaign literature because it isn't a legislative issue. However, if you're asking about my personal views, I am pro-life. I'm opposed to, and would vote against, funding abortions with federal tax money."

A challenging tone crept into the woman's voice. "So you're opposed to a woman's right to choose?"

"I'm opposed to funding abortions with federal tax money."

"Well, would you overturn Roe v Wade if you had the opportunity?"

"I'm sorry, Ms... What's your name?"

"Ramona Dorst."

"Ms. Dorst, I prefer not to play around with hypothetical questions. Only the Supreme Court can overturn Roe v Wade. I have no plans or desire to ever serve as a Justice on the court."

"But would you personally like to see it overturned?"

"Yes, the authority in that matter should never have been removed from the states, in my opinion. The court had no legal or constitutional authority for doing so."

Apparently annoyed with where he was taking the discussion -- into the most boring level of the political quagmire -- Dorst changed tactics to put the spotlight squarely back on him.

"Do you think terminating a pregnancy is murder?"

Blog entry on the Jacksonville Progressive's Blog:

Voters of Florida Congressional District Four, pay very close attention. We have a genuine, bona fide right-wing Christian nutcase running as (what else?) a Republican, who will challenge Congressman Lloyd Keller in November, provided he wins the Republican primary. This wing-nut's religious fanaticism hasn't received much attention; in fact, as far as we can determine, we at JaxProgBlog are the first to break this information.

Part of the reason is the candidate's newness. A few weeks ago, Randy Stevenson was a total political unknown. When he announced his candidacy on January 15th, it went largely unnoticed by both parties and the press, and it stayed that way for two months, until Stevenson found financial backers who provided the funds for TV and radio advertising.

Since then, his candidacy has taken off like a rocket and he has become the most visible candidate in the race. He's polling neck and neck with long-term Republican Edwina Granger, a three-time loser to Keller in previous Congressional races. Unfortunately, in all his campaign literature and advertising, all he's done is spout the party line -- Washington taxes too much, spends too much, messes in our lives too much, blah, blah, blah.

But at a recent candidate forum, Stevenson admitted he is pro-life, which means he is opposed to reproductive freedom for women. He admitted he is opposed to a repeal of the Defense of Marriage Act, which means he is against equal rights for gays.

Anti-woman; Anti-gay. Does that tell you where we're headed with this guy?

Stevenson lives in Tyrone, a little berg about an hour west of Jacksonville -- barely within the borders of District Four. He's a member of the Tyrone Baptist Church. We all know about right-wing Christian-Baptist dogma. The earth was created 6,000 years ago by an old man in the sky with a long, white beard. There's no such thing as evolution. Jews and Buddhists and Muslims will certainly roast in hell... We've all heard it all before.

Bookmark this blog, folks. We're going to monitor this guy like white on rice to see whether he shows the propensity for Christian fanatical Republican positions on other issues -- war-mongering to enrich the corporate class, elevating corporate greed above a clean environment, giving tax breaks to the rich that make the poor even poorer. As we have been doing for ten years now, we will pass along to you everything we learn about these right-wing nuts....

But we can tell you already, the Fourth District doesn't need a Congressman like Randy Stevenson.