Part x of 6

 
WARNING! If you are of a conservative bent, you'll hate this one. You. Have. Been. Warned.

Author's Note: I stole this plot from Robert Heinlein, who stole it from a long line of felonious authors reaching back to some guy pressing Cuneiform into clay on a riverbank in the Middle East, in hopes of preserving his deathless prose. It is better to take what does not belong to you than to let it lie around neglected. - Mark Twain
 

Chapter 1
There was a small body of water, but it wasn't Walden Pond. There was a small cabin, but it wasn't the rustic retreat of his namesake, Henry David Thoreau. Nor was it a mile and a half from the occupant's family home, but deep in the Northern woods, an area where you could still ignore the incursions of what some called civilization if you tried hard enough.

The occupant of this cabin certainly felt a connection to the Transcendentalists of Thoreau's era, attempting to find the spiritual in the solitude of the deep woods. However, as did the transcendentalists of old, he did not refute modern technology but only the regimentation and corruption that seemed to be bound so tightly to the society that produced it.

A large solar array powered the cabin, as well as recharged the battery operated chain saw that made made the effort of heating the cabin with wood from the surrounding forest far easier than his Nineteenth century mentors could ever have imagined. Likewise, the satellite dish on the cabin roof provided access to the Internet even in this rustic setting.

That same solar array allowed our solitary seeker of wisdom write copiously, much as did Thoreau, but the writing was done on a laptop computer and shared with the circle of seekers with whom he corresponded. A man of contradictions, to be sure, but what man is not?

One contradiction that he frequently pondered was that his splendid isolation was only possible because he was a scion of a very wealthy family. His family prided themselves on their ability to accumulate and grow money with remarkable effectiveness. Those that weren't engaged in managing money often turned to politics, but with an attitude of service rare in the modern world. This same attitude of service fueled the family's ability to distribute a good portion of that money to charitable causes.

Taken on balance, the family was responsible for much improvement in the lives of those who so desperately needed it. The problem was, our recluse still harbored an instinctive distaste for the whole business of making money, and an even stronger distaste for those grasping politicians that inhabited the legislatures of this land.

Despite the intensive training he had received as he grew to maturity, he simply could not grasp why anyone would want to spend their lives acquiring more money or dealing with those greedy phonies, no matter how noble the results.

Indeed a man of contradictions.
 

For the past two years he had lived frugally, tapping into the family fortune only when necessary, and tried to find peace in his thoughts and writing. E-mail allowed him to correspond with like minded individuals, and he maintained an active network of philosophically inclined friends.

Historians of some future era will be delighted that almost all of his thoughts and writings would be electronically stored and available to any historian inclined to eke a Masters thesis from some obscure philosopher of a bygone age. No need for painstaking work to decipher water-stained pages in spidery cursive script, all that treasure-trove could be instantly printed in crisp, clean type on virginally white paper with the push of a button.

Perhaps the most negative aspect of e-mail was, though he was physically remote, his family could still exhort him to return to the fold and assume his responsibilities to the family fortunes. The DELETE key was a blessing at such times.

Much like his idol Thoreau, this splendid isolation would come to an end in just over two years. His first warning was the sound of an internal combustion engine, something rarely heard in his retreat. The sound increased, disturbing his concentration as he wrote until it became far too loud and abruptly cut off. Then came the knock on the door, something that had never occurred in all his time in the woods.
 

Chapter 2
"Henry David Bonforte, you son of a bitch, open this goddam door!"

So much for the peace of the deep woods and the pleasures of solitary contemplation. His mother had arrived.

He knew that if he didn't open the door she would do it for him; after all there was no lock on it to bar her further progress. Hank opened the door to see a formidable woman in black leathers grinning at him. Behind her was a gleaming red Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Undoubtedly she could tell him exactly the model and any small detail about the machine, but Hank wasn't really interested.

"Hello, Mother."

"Well, aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said and bowed sarcastically.

"Not as bad as I thought! I suppose if you're going to be a hermit it beats a dank cave on the top of a mountain somewhere."

"I am not such an aesthete that I eschew comfort."

"Jesus Christ. I knew that your father shouldn't have named you after some rustic philosopher hiding in the woods. I don't think I have ever heard anybody use the word eschew in conversation. How the hell are you, kid?"

"I'm doing quite well, although I assume that you finding my little slice of heaven means someone in the family is not doing so well."

"Got it it in one, Hank. You cousin Myrna is in trouble."

All impulse to banter with his mother vanished. Hank and Myrna had grown up together, more like siblings than cousins. Myrna had found herself drawn into politics from her first protest march in college while Hank had preferred the solitude and simplicity of an academic life.

He suddenly realized that he had not heard from Myrna in some time. He had heard of Myrna, however, as she was raising Cain as a state Senator with a strong interest in environmental issues. They were both committed to environmental causes but had chosen vastly different paths to implement that commitment.

"What's wrong?"

"Myrna is sick and getting sicker. It's called Alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency - A1AD - for short, and it's taking out her lungs and kidneys. It's genetic and started to show a little before you hied yourself off into the woods. Now it's killing her."

"NO! What about treatment? Can't they do anything for her?"

"They're trying, but her body is fighting them. We may be looking at a lung transplant."

"So what can I do?"

"Medically? Not a blessed thing. They're loading her with stuff nobody can pronounce and doing all they can."

"Mom, you know I'd do just about anything to help Myrna."

"Which is why I'm here in this godforsaken back of beyond. There's something you can do but you're not going to like it."

"For Myrna, I can put up with a lot."

"Son, I'm damned glad to hear you say that. She is going to need your help badly. It's getting bad and she has COPD. Son, a politician that can't breathe hasn't got a chance if she can't give speeches and make appearances all over the state. She has six months to the election. She needs to campaign or she's gonna get beaten by that fucking asshole running against her if she doesn't show. That's where you come in."

"You're right, I hate being up on a platform playing politician, but I'll campaign for Myrna if that's at it takes. Count me in."

"Son, you're missing the point. Myrna can't campaign. You aren't going to campaign for Myrna, you're going to campaign as Myrna."
 

Chapter 3
"Mother! Will you never let me forget that Myrna and I played dress-up together as children?"

"Not a chance. And I do believe that you were only three years younger than you are now when the two of you were a lesbian couple in Provincetown for a week of fun together."

"With you around I doubt I'll ever have to hire a private eye."

"I'll give you the family discount. Now listen, son: if I go over and open your wardrobe, what are the chances that there at a minimum of two dresses in the thing?"

"I wouldn't bet the farm on it. You'd lose."

"Not that I don't trust you, Hank, but…"

She opened the wardrobe.

"See!" he crowed. "Only one dress. You lost, so what were the terms of the bet?"

"We didn't set terms. I suppose you won on a technicality. Let's see, One, two…six skirts, One, two, three… seven blouses and, ah, four nightgowns. No need to count the slips. You still have very good taste in clothes, my dear. I'm surprised that I didn't find you wearing some of these clothes."

"It's my day off. I have to unglue the forms every so often and let my chest breathe."

"I suppose that explains why you have six more identical flannel shirts in there? Really, you would think your feminine side would be more creative with your masculine side. I suppose you sing that silly song about crossdressing loggers while you're chopping wood."

"Nonsense! I have an electric wood splitter, it's too noisy to sing while I'm using it."

"I suppose that's a blessing. If you were swinging an axe all day long you'd have too many muscles to be your cousin."

"Mother! You can't be serious."

"Hank, if Myrna gets turfed out as chair of the environmental committee you're going to have a bloody pipeline for a neighbor and a string of monster towers bringing power down from Quebec or some such Canadian place running through your back yard. It's in your own self-interest to get her re-elected."

"And what happens when some sleezball from the National Enquirer figures out that I'm up there instead of Myrna? Ever think of that, Mother?"

"You'll just have to be perfect then, won't you?"

"Now that's a first! That has to be the first time you've thought I could be perfect at anything."

"Says the man with three best sellers on the market and has just completed a very successful lecture tour."

"Which reminds me. I am rather well known as my own self. What happens when one of my fans attends one of Myrna's shindigs and figures out who I am?"

"Then the gracious and poised Myrna laughs at just how much she and her cousin share the Bonforte family genetics and commitment to the environment. Just don't show them the pictures from Provincetown."

"If it didn't so obviously involve genetic manipulation I would say: When Pigs Fly!"

"Just one more reason why you have to become your cousin - who knows when some mad good-old-boy will set up a lab and start manipulating genes and create a frankenpotato? The potato industry would suffer and there goes the state economy. Myrna needs to be in the senate to keep that crap under control."

"If he comes up with a potato that digs itself out of the ground then I'm all for it! Some GMO can be good."

"Heresy! Oh, the shame!"

"See, I'd be a lousy Myrna."

"Nonsense. You'll have three months for Myrna to teach you how to be Myrna, not that she hasn't taught you to be a lady for the last twenty years. I assume you sized your falsies so they were about the same as your cousin. You certainly could exchange your feminine wardrobe with hers and nobody would comment."

"Mother! Would you discuss their cup size with your daughters?"

"Certainly. They were obsessive about how big they were when they were growing up. When Susan started breastfeeding she was thrilled to make it all the way up to a D-cup."

"I'm satisfied with a B."

"As is Myrna. Well not completely satisfied, mind you, but she has very nice breasts, as I'm sure you've noticed. I wonder if getting you implants would be considered a campaign expense?"

"Mother!"

"Don't tell me you haven't thought of it. You'll be healed up in time to start campaigning. We'll get you out to Reno to have them done so nobody back here will know."

"Jesus Mother! You sure you weren't a pimp before you married Daddy?"

"How do you think we met? That whole business about getting a face full of cotton candy at the fair is just our cover story."

"Mother, you should be the one running. I've never heard anyone who could spout such bullshit on command."

"Why thank you; you've always been my favorite niece."

"I'm not going to win this one, am I?"

"Of course not! Tomorrow morning you will arise, glue your pretty titties to your body, dress appropriately and Helen will be at Myrna's place in time for dinner. Don't bother with any of your clothes, most especially those flannel shirts. Just bring your underwear, otherwise you'll be sharing Myrna's wardrobe, as you will be Myrna to everyone outside her inner circle."

"You make this thing sound like a hula-hoop contest."

"You'll be able to shake your booty with the best of them when we're through with you. Once Myrna can breathe properly again I look forward to seeing which of you would win."