Tommy clutched his M4 carbine awkwardly to his small frame. It was not made for him, and it was heavy. His joints ached, but he had to keep going. He could feel the warmth of his own breath as it passed the tip of his nose. It was early November, and the forest floor was coated with damp, brown leaves. He took each step quietly. Tommy was good at being quiet - being a dwarf meant he weighed much less than the average man. Occasionally, his stubby legs would scraped hard against the crackling leaves, or he would start wheezing so loud that he had to stop, but at least his foot-falls were gentle.
He heard the sharp crack of an automatic rifle's report. duhduhduh. It sent his heart beating. He squinted and scanned the treeline. Brown. Brown. Brown. A camouflage pattern brought to life, fading into the morning fog.
duhduhduh duhduhduh Were they getting closer. He listened, and heard voices made faint distance and muffled by the cold humidity.
Tommy moved slower now, prowling catlike in the overpriced camo poncho that he wore over his clothes. He listened. He watched. He waited.
The snapping of a twig caused him to jerk his head. He saw movement, and there it was. A buck, out of the woods so suddenly that Tommy wondered at how he had not seen it coming. He leveled his gun. The animal stared at him, but it did not move. How did it not understand what was happening here? It was time to take the shot. Tommy took a deep breath, and slowly began to press down on the trigger...
Vwhoom, they came over a hill suddenly. A John Deer Gator loaded with drunk politicians. "Fack..." Tommy jumped, and he fired. The deer ran, and Tommy lost control of the rifle. He fell back on his ass, and the loud burst from his gun cut a branch from a thin undergrowth tree.
The other men laughed. Tommy felt moisture soaking into his clothes, and he did not know why he ever did this. They helped him into the back of the Gator, and he sat beside the stinking, bleeding corpse of a young buck that had been shot into two halves.
---
After a day of it, they set up in a field, where the sun was going down and the crackle of a campfire kept them warm. This he liked - sitting down, and enjoying the ghostly sight of twilight as it settled over the countryside and cloaked everything behind the woodline in darkness. The smell of fire, the feeling of the cold air, that creeping knowledge that everything behind your back was an open wilderness hiding in the dark, this was his natural place. Naturally. The towelheads had their desert, the colored's had their jungles, and a white man of Gallic ancestry had the woods.
They had ported with them a 57 inch Plasma TV and hooked it up to a gas-powered generator. The generator's clunking buzz annoyed Tommy in some profound way he could hardly understand, but he kept it to himself. Here, surrounded by cousins and uncles, in-law's and brothers, they watched as election results poured in.
They rooted for the Republican Candidate, Hayes, in the same way they would be cheering for football when Thanksgiving came around. The Presidency hardly effected the North Missouri political machine, and Tommy knew he had his office in the bag. There had been no democrat to run against him - only a libertarian supported by a renegade faction of Tea Partiers and anti-Pollaxes voters.
"Do you think Marty is going to give a speech?" The properly slushed Rolan Pollaxes slurred. He was the mayor of Bethany, and Tommy's eldest cousin. Rolan thought he was important because his town had a Wal-Mart.
"Dear Hillbillies" Rolan put on a whiny, mocking voice. "I should not have lost. If I was Congressman, we would smoke weed every day and never ever pay a tax for anything again."
Everyone laughed. Even Tommy. It wasn't that funny, but Tommy had drank enough that just hearing everyone else laugh was enough. Martin Woolcruncher had been a threat early on, but he had fallen deep enough into the Tea Party to scare away many of those moderates who might have voted for him only to spite the Pollaxes. There was very little money in this district. Many knew, deep down, that the far-reaching threats he made toward government spending would mean less welfare for them. For a someone up here, their opposition to welfare ended where the city began. It was those minorities and their welfare queens that caused the problems. But nobody could make a living in these small towns without a little bit of help from the government.
"Damn, there goes Ohio." someone else said. "Looks like it is going to be Norman."
"That is good." Tommy squeaked. "Lets hope he does something to piss off our people. Then all I'll have to do to get reelected the next time is bitch about the president."
Everyone laughed. Tommy laughed.
"You'll be in office long enough to be a senator!"
"That's not how it works, Flan." Tommy answered. Flan Pollaxes was his great uncle. Even at seventy two, he didn't seem that competent.
"Well..." he thought. "Maybe you'll be in there long enough that i'll become the Assessor!"
Everybody laughed. "If Great Grandpa Ulysses retired." Tommy said. "He won't die, but he might retire..."
"Pfff." Flan answered. "He's already in that old folks home in Grant City. Can't think straight, but they just keep voting him in!"
Everybody laughed. It was true.
---3 months later
Around him, old men buzzed. The House was full of activity, as most of the congressmen flocked in hoping to make their faces known. Tommy had mingled for a while, but he had grown bored of it. Most politicians weren't sure how to react to a man half their height, and talking to them tired him too. He settled down in his seat. It smelled like stale paint, and it was horribly uncomfortable. People didn't fight over these seats to feel comfortable. A fifteen dollar lawn-chair would have sufficed better for that purpose alone.
"Members of the House," he heard the Clerk of the House say across the hall "Welcome to the opening session of the 114th Congress. As is our tradition, voting will now commence on the new Speaker of the House. One they are elected, congressmen will be sworn in and this session will be opened. Let the voting commence."
"Jesus..." Tommy muttered under his breath. He decided to wait for a few minutes. He pulled out his phone and looked at his recent texts. None. He had been anticipating something from a guy in Sweden selling an old ancient Gallic Helmet. He looked over pictures of it again. Good shape. Impressive. Much more interesting than this.
But this was how he got the money. And he was expected to be here.
