CRAWFORD, TEXAS

George W. Bush enters his ranch transition room. On one end of the coffee table there’s a Bible, on the other end “God and Man at Yale”, by William F. Buckley Jr.. An American flag is in each corner of the room. On every wall hangs a picture of George Senior. God Bless America plays softly in the background.

General Colin Powell, who is reading a pocket version of the Constitution which he carries with him everywhere, struggles to extricate himself from the soft sofa.

W extends his hand. “Did you have a good flight?”

“A little turbulence, but we made good time ah…Mr….ah….your…”

“Just call me Mr. President,” W says, tilting his head, giving the General his most ingratiating Texas smile as he pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll call you Mr. Secretary.”

“I can’t really do that, Sir,” Powell says, opening the Constitution, flipping through the pages. “If you’ll read this, Sir, it says that you won’t be President until the Electors—”

“That’s in the bag,” W says, his smile fading. “It’s a Democrat plot to steal the election.” W looks at the book in Powell’s hand. “Whaddya got there—a Bible? I don’t know if you know this, but I’m a born-again Christian. If it hadn’t been for Laura and the Bible, I’d still be out carousing.”

“It’s the Constitution, Sir,” Powell says, pointing at a page.

“You read that?” W says in astonishment. “You a lawyer or something? Can you believe the University of Texas wouldn’t let me into their lousy law school. Had to go to Harvard Business instead. Do you believe that? See if they get any cabinet appointments.”

“What about the Florida votes?” Powell says, pushing the Constitution back into his hip pocket.

W guffaws. “I bet Gore’s having a fit. Miami’s Mayor Penelas is somethin’ else. He’s a Democrat, you know. Wouldn’t help with the Miami-Dade recount. That’ll teach those Democrats to send Elián back to Cuba. What goes around comes around.”

“But we could count those votes in just a few days if we used the military. The Constitution doesn’t say that we can’t—”

“What in the devil are you talking about?” W shouts. “Are you crazy?”

Powell snaps to attention. “Just say the word, Sir! I could sweep in with a Marine Battalion and manually count those votes before anyone knew what hit him.”

“Why in the world would I do that?” W says, his face turning bright red.

“When faced with difficult situations, you told us that you asked yourself what Jesus would do. You were an inspiration.” Powell salutes W. “Sir! I’m sure Jesus would have counted all the little-people’s votes.”

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Outside the Vice President’s Residence, crowds chant: “Get out of Cheney’s house! Get out of Cheney’s house!”

Inside, Tommy Lee Jones and Al Gore are having breakfast in the dining room. Pictures of past Presidents line the walls. Nowhere is there a picture of President Clinton. Butterfly ballots are strewn on the floor. Punch-card ballots are on the table. Gore is still in his pajamas. His eyes are puffy and red. His hair is matted. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture booms in the living room. The canon shots of the finale rattle the credenza doors in the dining room.

“Look at this, Tommy,” Gore says, holding out a ballot. “Clearly you can see it’s a vote for me.”

Jones takes the ballot, looks at it carefully, casting a sidelong glance at Gore, and then places the ballot on the table.

“Tommy, I just can’t get any sleep. I dream all night of silver-haired little ladies feebly trying to vote for me, trying to punch their ballots, pressing with their weak, small fingers, leaving behind thousands of dimpled chads.”

Jones places his hand on Gore’s arm. “Al, my agent says he can get you a four-year contract. You’ll make a ton of money hosting Your Vote Counts. You can have Buddhists, anyone you want on the show. You can even have Republicans on if you want. Just think of the possibilities. At the end of a couple years, you’ll be more popular than Jerry Springer and Oprah Winfrey combined.”

“But Tommy, I’ve been riding around in Air Force Two for eight years! If they’d just count those ballots, Air Force One would be mine.”

“Snap out of it,” Jones says, squeezing Gore’s arm. “Run the show; work on your stage presence; get your act together. Reagan was the actor president. Bush’ll be the baseball-owner president. In four years, the country’ll be crazy for an earnest, game-show president.”

THE END

The names of congressmen and the roles they played scroll on the screen. The Beatles’ Can’t Buy Me Love plays in the background, as the sun sets in the east, behind the Capitol Dome.