Rick walked into the room, and saw no poker chips or decks of cards or bags of Doritos on the table. Fled was drinking a diet root beer and some other guy he didn't know was drinking a Snapple, but the rest of the guys, none of whom he knew, were drinking nothing.

"Where's the beer?" Rick said.

Fled smiled uneasily.

A man in a white shirt and yellow tie stood up and extended his hand. "Thanks for coming, Rick."

Rick said, "I come every couple weeks. Where's the poker game?"

"We decided to defer it a little while," Fled said.

"Rick, we'd like you to run for Mayor." The man in the yellow tie was still standing. The other men also wore ties. Rick was wearing a black T-shirt with an abstract image of Jerry Garcia on it. The table, in a conference room in Fled's offices -- usually the game was at someone's house; should've been a tip off, Rick thought -- was laminated mahagony.

"I don't have a job, bud."

The man smiled. "Philip. We know. You're what we're looking for." The man slid a sheet of paper on the table toward Rick. Rick picked it up.

"The unknown dangers of porto-sans?" Rick said, reading from the page.

"Your first platform. Environmental hazards . . ."

Rick said, "they use no water . . ."

" . . . . and the urinals, next to the toilets, look like sinks. People, our kids at the parks, at their games, wash their hands in them, use the wax deodorizing bar as soap . . ."

"Are you crazy?" Rick said.

"We'll pay you," the man said. His white hair was thick and shellacked in place.

"To do what?" Rick said.

"Very little."

Rick watched the man, who sat down. Fled was reading something on his lap. It looked like a power tools catalog. The others at the table were watching the man.

"Why don't you run?" Rick said.

"People don't like me. They like you. That's what we hear. We think the town can use you."

Fled nodded, looked up at Rick hopefully. "I say we play some poker," Fled said. The man smiled and pulled up from the floor a wooden box of poker chips, and a large grocery bag filled with junk food.

"Where's the beer?" Rick said.

The man pulled up an ice chest, smiled, opened it and passed around dripping cold bottles of Iron Horse Lager.

Rick looked at Fled, a look that said, I'm going to kill you, unless, maybe not, unless I win big tonight. Fled seemed to get it, and nodded. He angled the throat of his beer bottle toward Rick, a toast. Rick swigged the beer, noted its strong taste, and ignored Fled....read more Rick and Fled