The Lobbiest

People say that dumb ideas dreamed up at the bar while getting wasted never turn out well. They're normally not wrong.

It was just after 8pm, and Jason Durgood was sitting back in his office chair with his dress shoe-clad feet up on his desk. Raising your glass of whiskey, you took a sip, savoring the expensive liquid. A ghost of a smile flirted across your lip as you enjoyed the silence.

Tomorrow was one of your favorite days of the year, and it was all thanks to Lie. Taking another sip, you think back to that December day at shooters after you and your buddies had been let go because of a 'strategic realignment.' What it really was was an excuse to cut costs to make the quarter look better for some C-suite assholes' bonuses.

You and your friend had been sitting around a table nursing beers you all really couldn't afford when the news caught your attention.

The marquee for a place called Comet Pizza was being shown on the screen. The group of you quieted, listening as the reporter talked about the armed standoff that had apparently been sparked by claims on 4chan that Hillary Clinton had been running a pedophile ring out of the store's basement.

"Those people eat all that shit up," snorted Joe Nelson, who'd been one of your best friends.

Shaking your head, you sighed, remarking, "Are you surprised after what we saw in the election."

You all shared a good laugh at that; the election had been a shit show. Unlike some, you'd never been a fan of Donald Trump. You grew up listening to your father's unvarnished opinion of the man. He'd been one of the many contractors stiffed by the man over the years.

You'd always attributed your dad's insights to the reason you saw through Trump's BS on The Apprentice. When so many people you knew thought he was the greatest businessman in the world, evidence be damned.

It has been getting close to midnight when the bartender cut you and Derek, another friend, and took your car keys. You tried to argue as a matter of course, but you knew you were too shitfaced to drive.

The two of you were waiting on your cab when, out of nowhere, Derek asked the question that would change your life.

"Jason, how much money do you think Trump's made from all those lies he's spewing?"

You looked at the ceiling, thinking about it before replying. "Tens of millions, easy, would be my guess."

Derek whistled, muttering, "Wouldn't it be great if we could get a piece of that?"

"Right..." you bark.

A couple minutes went by before Derek spoke up again. "Wouldn't it be wild if we started a super PAC and got ourselves a piece of that money?"

You broke into laughter at that until it broke into a cough. "How on earth would we start a super PAC?" you replied after catching your breath. "We'd need money, which we have none of."

Derek looked a little hurt as he muttered, "Yeah, but just think if we did have the cash."

A short time later your cab had arrived, and you left Shooter heading for your home.

Wouldn't it be wild if we started a super PAC? A drunken idea that should have been forgotten by the time the hangover wore off.

And it would have except by a strange quirk of fate. The next afternoon you'd just left Shooters after picking up your truck. Low on gas, you stopped at Sunoco and by habit got a scratch-off card.

And won fifty thousand dollars.

Knock, knock, knock.

Blinking, you look at the closed door, calling out, "Come in."