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That Man from Nebraska - Confronting the Constitution

That Man from Nebraska - Confronting the Constitution

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That Man from Nebraska - Confronting the Constitution

Lunghezza:
151 pagine
2 ore
Editore:
Pubblicato:
Jun 9, 2018
ISBN:
9781387870523
Formato:
Libro

Descrizione

An exciting and romantic Novella about the way elections are run in the United States of America. The “system” is so complex and complicated that very few of her Citizens really understand the process so choose not to participate.

As a Constitutional Republic, America's elections are considered a joke by many other true democracies. In most cases, voters have no option but to vote for the "least-worst" candidate knowing that whichever party rules, nothing will change for the masses. The wealthy supporters of candidates and Parties call in their markers and laws are written so as to make that which was either unfair or a crime, legal, so enabling them to enrich themselves at the expense of the lower classes.

The Federal Government is ruled by an unelected Supreme Court who, by all appearances, have followed the lead of Congress and sold out to Wall Street and the politicized Corporations.
Editore:
Pubblicato:
Jun 9, 2018
ISBN:
9781387870523
Formato:
Libro

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That Man from Nebraska - Confronting the Constitution - Luigi Kleinsasser

That Man from Nebraska - Confronting the Constitution

That Man from Nebraska – Confronting the Constitution

PREAMBLE

An exciting and romantic Novella about the way elections are run in the United States of America. The system is so complex and complicated that very few of her Citizens really understand the process so choose not to participate.

As a Constitutional Republic, America’s elections are considered to be a joke by many other true democracies. In most cases, voters have no option but to vote for the least-worst candidate knowing that whichever party rules, nothing will change for the masses. The wealthy supporters of candidates and Parties call in their markers and laws are written so as to make that which was either unfair or a crime, legal, so enabling them to enrich themselves at the expense of the lower classes.

The Federal Government is ruled by an unelected Supreme Court who, by all appearances, while claiming to be non-partisan and independent jurists, have followed the lead of Congress and sold out to Wall Street and the Corporations.

Kleinsasser has distilled the process and tongue-in-cheek, shows how to game the system and why the United States of America’s Constitution, which was written to favor the rich at the expense of the poor, needs to be amended to benefit all. A genuine exposé of the rigged Federal Electoral system that’s in dire need of an honest change.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2020 - Luigi Kleinsasser

ISBN:

LEGAL NOTICE

The names of the characters in this novella are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

This e-book is intended for the sole use of the original purchaser. If you wish to share this story with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

If you’re reading this e-book and are not the original purchaser, please go to lulu.com and purchase your own personal copy.

Thank you for respecting the author’s labor of love.

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without the express, written permission of the author.

Chapter One: Meet the Man and His Sidekick

Somewhere almost in the dead center of Nebraska, the State better known as the Ash Tray of America, not too far from Broken Bow in the County of Custer (such name having its own reputation for chivalry, bravery, contrivances and foolhardiness), the local election battle in the town that need not be named for fear of reprisal, had heated up to an almost unbearable temperature. The residents had been awakened from their lifelong slumber where their evenings, which were always expectedly uneventful, had suddenly changed and now there was a civic urge to do their patriotic duty and make a valiant, last stand.

What strange event could have mobilized a typical, previously apathetic American community to become active participants in the electoral process?

* * * * *

As if it wasn’t bad enough . . . the neighbor boy, Ryan, Brian or whatever his name is, has his heavy-metal rock band rehearsing in their basement until close to mid-night several nights a week. The local ordinance clearly states that all music or other disturbances must cease by 10:00 p.m. Then he’s there thumping away on those damned drums every afternoon and his god-damned baseball lands on the roof at least once a day and his parents still haven’t paid for the window pane he broke last month! And to make matters even worse, as it turned out, the boy’s father is an Alderman on the local municipal council.

Don had lodged a complaint at City Hall before he even realized that his neighbor was one of the Aldermen. The confrontation that ensued was most troubling.

So, why the hell didn’t you just come over and tell me the kid’s band was annoying you. Why be vindictive and go to City Hall? Alderman Cedric Wyatt was fuming.

The tone of Don’s voice was rising and he face was red and throbbing, I told you about the broken window and you’ve done nothing about that and your kid’s baseball still lands on my roof at least once a day and lodges in the gutter. Without even asking, he’s always dragging that damned ladder over here, leaning it up against the guttering, denting it then tramping around the roof looking for his god-damned ball. If he falls and breaks his neck, you’ll probably want to sue me for whatever! And I didn’t even know you were a Councilman. Great job you must be doing! Nobody even knows what you do on the council and you’re surely aware of the noise-abatement law . . .

Aw, noise-abatement law, schmoyze-abatement law. The kids’ band need a place to practice and it keeps them off the street. If they were out riding their bikes around the neighborhood, you’d be complaining about that as well . . .

You’re the perfect example of the need for a license to procreate. If you can’t control your own kids and stop them from annoying the whole neighborhood, or keep them off the streets roaming around like a gang of hoodlums, you shouldn’t have been allowed to breed.

Aha! So then, you’re one of them neo-Nazi nut-jobs, eh? Want to control who has kids and who doesn’t? How do you feel about Jews and Blacks while we’re at it?

For crying out loud! What the hell are you talking about? The problem starts on your side of the fence, not mine. And what’s Jews got to do with anything? Blacks? Don slammed the door in his neighbor’s face and stalked into his study to dig out the bill for the window repair. If it wasn’t paid by next week, he’d take it to small claims court. But he couldn’t remember where he’d put his glasses down and without them, it was a waste of time looking for paperwork.

Damned nuisance of a neighbor! Damned eyesight, damned glasses, damn everything! He walked to the fridge, popped the top off a Heineken, took a long swig and thought to himself: The best thing I could do would be to go into Lincoln and visit the Dollar Store and buy a dozen pair of those cheap plastic reading glasses and spread them around the house.

Don Watsin was tall and wiry, recently retired and widowered several years earlier. He’d owned a successful engineering firm and after his wife Margaret died of ovarian cancer, he’d sold out to his junior partner on a monthly commission basis until the agreed-upon sale price was reached. He still consulted at the workshop on a contract arrangement but with no hobby to occupy his mind he had too much spare time on his hands. He tended to brood over simple matters so the big problems, of which he had but few, seemed of even greater consequence and magnitude than they really were – molehills turned into mountains.

He’d voted in every election but had never been active in politics, preferring to vote for the man rather than the party platform. Heck, he didn’t even know his next-door neighbor’s last name until all this crap hit the fan. Several current events seemed to be coming together to indicate a spiteful reprisal by his neighbor, Cedric Wyatt, the Councilor. Don’s very successful engineering business had been spot-inspected by OSHA which tied production up for a few days but received a first-class safety-rating, the Health Department had gone through the place with a fine-toothed comb claiming they’d been told it was rat-infested . . . and now this over-the-fence back and forth.

I wonder if I actually voted for the ass-hole? he mused through clenched teeth. No, if I didn’t know his name or what he stood for I must have voted for his opponent . . . hmm, I wonder who that was? Have to pay more attention, I guess. Seems to me, if he’s on the council, he should be working for his electorate, not thumbing his nose at the rules! And he probably did have something to do with the OSHA inspections and the Health Department thing. Wonder what the dickens he’ll come up with next? Oh, well.

Don tended to think out loud just as he had done when Margaret was alive. At times he felt as though she must still be around; she’d seldom answered his mumbled postulations or intruded in his thought-process knowing full-well his questions were rhetorical and that he wasn’t seeking an opinion, merely expressing his own, almost inviolate version of things as he saw them and the conclusions he’d come to. A soft uhuh was all he needed from her for approval of whatever his then current plan might have been. What he missed most about her though was her cooking and the precision of her meal-timing. She always seemed to know when to present a meal so that it didn’t intrude on whatever project he was involved in at the time. Oh, and regular sex. How long had that been!?

The search for his glasses proved fruitless. He muttered angrily, So, is that jerk a full-time Alderman or does he have a real job? He resolved to do some research and find out more about his neighbor and exactly what his responsibilities might be for the Ward he supposedly represented. He reached for the phone but glanced at the large wall clock opposite his desk and realized it was time to open the garage door.

* * * * *

When Pancho arrived to mow the lawn, as he did every two weeks, he found Don pacing in the garage. Hey, Amigo! What’s up? Pancho enquired, perceiving Don’s agitation.

Damned neighbor and his kid with the drums and the baseball. Arrogant bastard. Still hasn’t paid for the broken window, y’know. Don couldn’t let the matter rest. It needed resolution.

"Ah well, Amigo, mas se perdió en Cuba y el mundo sigue girando de todos modos and before you ask, it means it’s not the end of the world it’ll keep spinning regardless. You know what they say in Mexico about such goings on: wipe the nose of your neighbor’s son, and take him into your house. But how’ve you been otherwise?"

Francisco Loma, Pancho for short, which he was, had been an illegal immigrant when he first started cutting the lawn for Don and when then-President Reagan declared amnesty Don had helped Pancho complete all his paperwork to become legal. He then sent all his friends to Don for help on their paths to citizenship as well. Pancho, with his exuberant personality and tell-it-like-it-is philosophy had become a sort of unofficial Latino-mayor for the community. He seemed to know everybody and was held in high esteem by all, Latinos and Gringos. You need help? Look for Pancho Loma!

What the hell good would it do to wipe the kid’s nose and have him in my place? Don asked.

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